Confessions of a Teenage Barrister
by ladybleugonewilde
Summary: A horrid prank in year four drives a wedge between Ron and Hermione. What lengths will Ron go to to prove his feelings for her are real? Will the help of his sister Ginny, some muggle music, and a quick lesson in the law be enough? RH with a little HG.
1. Chapter 1 The Elusiveness of Forgetting

_This story takes place in the summer between 4th and 5th year and covers an incident that occurred outside the JKR-Harry Potter Universe between Ron and Hermione (i.e.- it's my own twisted fantasy). It is completely fan-fictional, but I'd like to think that it COULD have happened. I hope you enjoy it, but that you enjoy JKR's universe more because she owns it all and I'm just a sloppy, tawdry wench with a hope and a dream that involves the characters that she created and owns outright. Oh, but one last note…there are spoilers to book 4, so read with caution!_

_---------------Now, read my shite. ------------------_

Confessions of a Teenage Barrister

**Chapter 1: The Elusiveness of Forgetting**

He was soaring through the sky, thighs clenched around Harry's _Firebolt, _as the wind whipped his ginger locks into a frenzied mess. His arms remained low at his sides, palms forward, reveling in the crosscurrents of the wind as they tugged on and pushed at his large hands. Shifting slightly in his seat, Ron circled the skies above his home, the Burrow, while anxiety twisted his stomach into knots. He could see Gred and Forge below in the gardens where they were weeding out garden gnomes under Mrs. Weasley's less than strict supervision. She sat on the porch, absently flipping through the latest _Witch Weekly, _and ever so often she would transpose a new recipe into her enormous cookbook. Glancing toward the rest of the house, Ron could imagine Ginny in her bedroom, no doubt writing another letter to . . . HER.

He flinched. Lately, just thinking about her name left him flushed with anger and humiliation. Things hadn't been the same between them since that fateful visit to Madame Pomfrey's sickroom. He cursed his luck again, damning Draco Malfoy to an ever expansive blaze in hell and warming a seat in his imaginative inferno beside Draco for Neville. Poor Neville, he thought. He let the hot seat vanish from his imagination with a sigh as his conscience pricked him. He knew it was only Neville's bad luck rather than any trace of ill will that had lead to his misfired Cheer Charm. But Draco, the prat, had intentionally infected him with Snape's Veritaserum, even though he knew the resulting consequences of such an interaction between the two magicks.

He shook his head, attempting to shake the memories from his mind. He landed roughly, and stomped slightly towards the house with Harry's broom slung over his shoulder. At his approach, Mrs. Weasley clucked her tongue with impatience as she noticed the mulish set of his features.

"Off to throw another strop, I suppose? Ronald Weasley! You must desist in this nonsense." She rose slightly, grabbing his elbow firmly as he tried to walk around her into the house. "Ron," she spoke quietly, concern etching her face, "I hate to see you like this. And I know that it wears on Harry as well. Please Ron . . . just send Hermione an owl. It can't be as bad as all that. After all, she's written to you . . . ."

Ron shook off her grasp, looking at her as if he'd been slapped. "Mum look, it's not that easy. You don't know…everything. You're wrong, alright?" Lowering his voice, he muttered, "Besides, she wrote to Harry, not to me."

Darkness clouded her features as Mrs. Weasley's brow furrowed further. "Oh, I don't know everything, do I? I know that tone Ronald Weasley, and don't you DARE act as if I don't know ANYTHING about you and your friends! Even now, poor Harry is upstairs moping over the state of things between you and Hermione. After everything he dealt with at the Triwizard Championship, and with the return of You-Know-Who, why can't you lay your pride aside and make amends, hmm? And I do too know that Hermione is more than willing to do the same. Don't think for one second that I've missed the three owls you yourself have received from her this summer, or the fact that you've yet to write her back! I'm ashamed of you! Go on. Go into the house and mope."

His chin wobbled slightly at her berating lecture. He clenched his jaw hard, glancing back at the garden where Fred and George quickly turned back to their work, both pretending that they hadn't been listening to the horrid exchange. But he saw their expressions—mirrored raised eyebrows and smirks—and leapt to his own conclusions about what they thought.

Everyone in his home believed that he was jealous of the King's Cross kiss; before parting for the summer at platform 9 and ¾, Hermione had leaned up on her tiptoes to press her lips . . . to Harry's cheek. Well, with the events that took place during the Triwizard Championship—Cedric's death, You-Know-Who's return, and Rita Skeeter's capture—he could hardly expect anyone to remember HIS insignificant visit to Madam Pomfrey's hospital wing after an unfortunate prank. But Hermione recalled. She had tried to pretend it hadn't happened, but he couldn't forget her rejection.

He stormed up the stairs to his bedroom and paused before the door. He heard low moans coming from inside and wondered whether Harry was having another nightmare. He had been doing that more and more lately, tossing and clutching a phantom pain originating from the scar on his forehead. Ron swallowed slightly and edged the door open silently before poking his head inside the room. He glanced around the flickering orange walls until his eyes alighted on Harry's bed. It remained empty. Frowning, he glanced back towards his own bed and his breath caught as he saw, not Harry, but Hermione sitting on his Chudley Cannons bedspread.

He stared hard, walking into the room against his own volition, hesitantly closing the gap between him and her starkly silent form. She looked so strange perched upon his bed, facing the wall with her back to him. Her face was turned as well, cheek pressed to the wall, and her eyes were shut as if in slumber. Her arms lay against the wall, bent at the elbows, on either side of her head while her hands curled against the posters as if they were clutching a bedspread. Ron gulped audibly as he approached her and thought that she surely must be under an enchantment. After all, why else would studious, sensible, practical Hermione Granger—top witch of their year—be in his bedroom, nude to the waist, and pressed intimately to his poster-laden walls without even the slightest qualm marring her sweetly-formed expression?

He stopped a few feet from her and leaned Harry's _Firebolt _against the window sill. Worrying his bottom lip with nervous teeth, he slowly stretched his arm out toward her shoulder. His hand visibly shook as it inched towards her bare flesh. He swallowed again, hard, while glancing down the length of her slim, smooth back. She seemed perfectly formed, though so much smaller than her robes had betrayed. His eyes followed the curve from her shoulder, over her shoulder blade, down her torso until they rested on the slight swell of her hip. Sporting scarlet-flushed ears, he glanced up quickly at her face which remained unchanged. Her hair floated around her face and shoulders like a quirky halo and her eyelashes dusted her cheek with soft shadows. Ron imagined trapping his fingers in those curls before raising fistfuls to his nose- breathing her in. Closing his eyes, he gulped back the temptation and returned to his task with a determined gleam in his eyes.

He veritably squeaked her name. "Her—ahem—Hermione?" She shifted slightly, snuggling closer to the wall, and Ron felt a slow-burning flush creep from the nape of his neck up through his cheeks as he glimpsed the silhouetted side of her breast.

Trembling, he glanced around again, desperate to spy a lurking Harry in one of the corners. He simply wasn't brave enough . . . he couldn't . . . no, couldn't POSSIBLY be the one to wake her. But he was quite alone but for this miniature goddess. Licking his parched lips, he took heart. Planting his feet firmly, he reached for her shoulders with both hands. His fingers skimmed over their fragile slopes, but before he could truly grip and shake them, she moaned- whimpered really, low in her throat- and he froze. His face a mask of fright, he looked again to her face, but only a soft, smiling pout had curled the corner of her lips upward. He nearly fainted as she spoke:

"Mmmmm . . . Ron? More . . . touch me . . . please?"

Her breathy words were so soft that her lips had barely moved. His palms instantly itched with nervous sweat. Pulling his hands away as if her skin had burned him, he clutched them in front of his stomach, wiping them on his shirt. Her face was now a study in consternation. She shifted fitfully, trembled. A small tear glistened beneath her velveteen eyelashes and his heart turned painfully.

"Hermione?" he spoke louder, "Hermione, you must wake up."

She seemed frozen in a silent pain. Summoning all the courage he possessed, he placed his palm fully against her shoulder blade. She sighed contentedly at his touch, her expression melted, and his thumb traced her spine, up and down, of its own volition. He felt a tingle between their skins, as if an intangible liquid heat rushed ahead of his fingertips only to force them back against her skin. It was like being caught again in the crosscurrents of the wind, as if he were caressing sky as he stroked her soft, golden skin. She purred then—actually PURRED—and his resolve shattered.

Surrendering to his quaking knees, he sank onto the bed behind her. His other hand seemed engorged as he compared its proportions to her other shoulder blade. He couldn't bring himself to press against her firmly, and so his hands nearly floated over her skin. He traced her spine with hands on either side of it, and let his hands turn as her waist thickened into the crests of her slight hips. He rested his hands there while he shut his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. When he reopened them, slowly, he allowed his gaze to trace the details of her face.

There was a small freckle at the corner of her eye that he had never noticed before, but her skin was as smooth as he'd recalled and her lips were as full. His eyes moved across the bent lines of her fretful curls, and he smiled as he began to count the shimmering colors within each strand that combined to form the shade of Hermione-brown of which he had so recently grown fond. It held a subtle beauty, unlike the palpable riot to which his inflamed tresses seemed to aspire.

He leaned closer, bowing his form around hers as he rested the side of his face against her neck and shoulder. He felt her sigh ripple through his own chest as if they were breathing the same dreams. She was soft and pliant- plush- like a pillow. He allowed his eyes to drift closed as he nuzzled her, lips resting lightly on the crest of her shoulder, and listened to the soft thrumming of her heart. Thump. Thump. THUMP!

He raised his head from his pillow with a start, and glanced around his shadowed bedroom from the awkward position of lying on his stomach. He saw the gentle rise and fall of Harry's chest as he slept in the bed opposite himself and continued to look for the source of the rhythmic thumping that had broken him from his dream. Glancing up at his window, he saw a slight, shadowy form beating against the pane with its face. Grumbling as he fumbled for the catch, he finally opened the window with only a mild curse for his devoted Pigwidgeon.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, ruffling his hair tiredly from his face and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with impatient hands, before focusing his bleary eyes on the tiny missive attached to Pig's leg.

Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley

The Burrow

He read the words with a sinking heart. SHE had written again. He turned the page over and over in his large hands, contemplating whether or not he should simply give into his curiosity and read her letter or place it atop Harry's other mail. He rubbed the bridge of his long nose with tense fingers and frowned. Perhaps it was due to the longing that his dream had inspired, or maybe it was because the will of Hermione Granger was a force of nature that no mere wizard could defy, but Ron felt compelled to scan the contents of her letter.

Gingerly, he pulled the folds apart, holding the page up to the sliver of moonlight that spilled through his window. His eyes skimmed the page, tracing the loops and curves of handwriting that seemed to whisper secrets to his resonating heart. Shaking his head with frustration, he sat up fully, furrowed his brow, and began to read.

Hello again Harry. Please send Ron my love (is he still angry with me?). I miss you both. Our travels aren't quite the same without your correspondence. No matter. I'm sure you are well taken care of at the Burrow (please send Mr. and Mrs. Weasley my love as well). You've been practicing quidditch and wizard's chess, no doubt (one of us must beat Ron one of these days; infallibility is good for NO ONE'S ego).

Mum and Dad are content. Please don't worry so much about us. Honestly. We are as safe together here as we would be were we at home. Does Ron never ask about me? I have written before, but he has not written back. Of course, I have enjoyed your letters, but it has made me wonder— is Ron ill? Or angry? I haven't received an invitation to the Burrow yet, and my parents are asking about it. I feel stupid not knowing where we all stand.

I can't tell you how much I miss you both. Please write again as soon as possible. And please let Ginny know that I hope she is enjoying the Muggle study aids that I sent to her. They are some of my favorite CDs as well.

Love from,

Hermione

His lungs expanded painfully and he realized that he hadn't breathed a single time while reading her letter. He sighed and attempted to rub the tension from behind his eyes. Glancing out the window at the moon, his body thrummed with longing. He grimaced at the irony of her written words. It seemed strange and incongruous that she would express concern over his unchallenged victory in wizard's chess when her unbeatable scholastic standing was far more renowned.

_No one is infallible_, he thought, thinking of his heart. He blushed as he realized that he was using the same caress upon the page that he had employed in his dream.

Shifting uncomfortably, he refolded the letter and pushed it towards Harry's side of the night table. He closed his eyes painfully and could almost hear the note of concern in her words. But he couldn't respond. He still couldn't believe how much her rejection had maimed him. It was an ache-filled presence in his heart that even now fought to burst from his chest. If he could erase that day he would—from his mind and from existence. But it replayed in his mind again, and he let his head fall back against the wall as he gave into reliving the day that had changed everything.


	2. Chapter 2 The Danger of Blending Magicks

**Chapter 2: The Dangers of Blending Magicks**

He had been late to breakfast that morning. Rushing down the stairs, he had pounded into the Great Hall clutching his peaked hat to his head. He slid into a seat at the Gryffindor table under the disapproving gaze of Professor McGonagall, gracelessly bumping into Hermione in the process. Reaching for the eggs, he turned his head to swiftly apologize and accidentally bumped his chin against her forehead. Both groaned and clutched their injured faces, apologizing profusely to one another at the same time.

"Is your _girlfriend_ trying to teach you the fine art of snogging, Weasel-by?" a pretentious voice drawled. Draco Malfoy and his mongoloid body guards Crabbe and Goyle had strolled up behind the trio to offer this jibe. Turning to his attentive sycophants, Draco continued, "S'been hired to make Potter jealous, no doubt. After that Rita Skeeter exclusive even a weepy Potter won't waste time on this trifling shrew." He gestured loosely at a gaping Hermione with a limp white hand. "After all, why would any self-respecting wizard lower himself to a mudblood level…if not for the money?" Turning to meet a fiery-faced Ron, he continued, "Saving up for your second-hand dress robes, I suppose?"

Ron's insides boiled with his fury. Hands clenched around a jug of juice, he struggled to his feet, sloshing the contents dangerously close to Draco's school robes. "Skeeve off, you blast-ended prat!" He ground out.

"Yeah. What's wrong Malfoy?" Harry added, his fingers biting into the table across from the intruders. "You're not _jealous_, are you?"

"Jealous of your leavings, Potter?" Malfoy countered, "I think not!"

"What?" Ron continued menacingly, "Suddenly realized these two giddy gits are unable to satisfy your _animal_ appetites? Or are you holding out the hope that there's another great, ridiculous bouncing ferret that'll take you up on a shag?"

"Yes," chortled Hermione beside him, "If you asked Professor Moody nicely, I'm sure he'd transfigure _someone_ into a hopping pug pup upon whom you could enact your ferrety seduction. I'm sure Pansy would volunteer for THOSE furry attentions."

The trio collapsed upon their seats in a fit of laughter as Malfoy's face flushed a violent shade of magenta. Crabbe and Goyle merely gaped at them before turning their heads to meet the glare of Pansy Parkinson, who had hung back at their elbows. Wrinkling her snub nose, she scoffed loudly before flouncing from the room. Her _Potter Stinks_ button winked dangerously from its position on her heaving chest and seemed to glare down the entire length of the Gryffindor table. Malfoy followed suit, slapping the button on his chest with violent force before storming from the room, all the while muttering about retribution. Crabbe and Goyle jutted their chins out at the Gryffindors menacingly and then hulked off behind their fur-less leader.

Harry shook his head at their retreating backs, stood up from the table, and made his way towards the library for another round of research. He waved to Ron and Hermione and shared a lingering grin with them as they prepared to leave for class.

After that morning's mild success, classes seemed like a tranquil retreat. Ron visibly sighed with relief as Professor Flitwick announced that they could treat his class period as a free review. Most of the students, especially after seeing Harry's performance at the first trial, decided to practice the Summoning Charm while others focused on its opposite, the Banishing Charm. Unfortunately for Ron, Neville was more concerned about honing his Cheer Charm as Hermione had stressed that it would probably show up on their O.W.L.'s. He and Seamus were partnered behind Ron and Hermione as they all began to practice.

Ron's Summoning Charm was relatively shaky due to his lack of concentration. He kept reflecting on Mad-Eye Moody's transfiguration of that albino git Malfoy into a bouncing ferret. He treasured that memory as one of the highest points in his life. His mild hero-worship of Professor Moody had lead to dreams of becoming an Auror when he grew up. He wondered whether he'd be able to use the Imperius or Cruciatus Curse on another person. He didn't think he'd have the heart. It was easy to picture Malfoy as a guinea pig for those exercises, but, then again, he was a prat; he seemed subhuman with his unfeeling attitude and cruel, elitist family. He couldn't picture himself in control of another living being and brought this point up to Hermione.

"_Accio libros_! Erm, Hermione? Do you think that a wizard can become an Auror if he, y'know, is a bit of a…pacifist- when it comes to the Deadly Curses?"

"Ronald! Honestly, you must concentrate on the object you are summoning. You must focus on an ACTUAL book, not just books in general." Glancing at his pensive expression, she sighed and considered his query. "Well, I suppose that could be a breaking point in their career. The Deadly Curses are outlawed presently, but who knows whether or not they'll be needed to fight a war in the future. Of course, there are other ways of enacting a form of the Imperious Curse using only a simple Cheer Charm and Veritaserum."

"Veritaserum? You mean that truth potion that oily git Snape threatened Harry with?" Ron looked at her with wide eyes as she nodded shortly. He was always amazed by her familiarity with subjects great and small. He choked back his mild jealousy. He knew that Hermione studied hard to master so many topics, but it always seemed like the answers flowed from the air, through her riotous curls to her brain, and out through her mouth like a kind of cosmic osmosis.

"Ronald WEASLEY," She admonished. "Snape is still our Professor! He may be a bitter, nasty scold but we mustn't use such language, ever. It makes us just as petty. As mum would say, 'Ron, use your big-boy words.'" Hermione chuckled a little at her small joke before continuing. "Honestly, it is truly fascinating how the combined dis-inhibitors in the Cheer Charm and Veritaserum can completely deplete its victim of his free will. Why, anyone who wanted to take advantage of the afflicted could get them to admit to any truth as well as anything else they wished him to confess."

Ron ducked swiftly as Neville's charm misfired in his direction. Neville was known for overly potent charms, and with Hermione's latest revelation Ron was even more skittish about being hit. He glanced at her with a harried expression, saying:

"What do you mean? I know that the Cheer Charm can lower your inhibitions and make you feel super-happy, like you've drunk well beyond your tolerance of mulled mead, but I thought Veritaserum forced you to tell the truth and ONLY the truth."

"That's just it, Ron. Both alone can alter your state of consciousness enough that you could confess your deepest, darkest secrets to your worst enemy, but when they are both combined it acts like a form of Muggle hypnosis. Only the subconscious mind remains intact and the victim becomes highly suggestible. He can no longer recognize the boundaries between what is right or wrong. There is no difference between fiction and reality or truth and fabrication in his mind, nor can he foresee the consequences of his unwitting revelations. The victim can let his innermost secrets slip out without a qualm, but he can also parrot what the people around him suggest. For example, if you were afflicted and I was to point at your mum and say, 'that woman is no true mother,' you might respond by saying, 'I have no mother,' or even tell her that she is not truly your parent! Can't you imagine the damage that would cause? A truly evil sort of person could make you confess to a murder or profess your devotion for someone you hate, or vice versa."

"Bloody hell!" he murmured. "So, you mean that someone could literally seduce someone, to any action or vow, just by combining those two magicks?" She nodded firmly in response while pursing her lips.

He reflected on this bit of information while gazing into Hermione's bright eyes. They were such a beautiful amber color- a rich and warm brown base with honey-gold flecks that swirled outward in intoxicating patterns. It was like watching one of those muggle confectionary machines that pulled seawater taffy mix toffee and caramel. He licked his lips subconsciously and glanced away, trying to turn his attention back to their conversation.

He frowned softly as he thought of his own words. Seduce, as in seduction? Now where had that come from? Hermione hadn't contradicted him though, so he must have been correct. But who would misuse magic in order to seduce someone else? Love charms and potions were outlawed for similar ethical reasons, although he was sure that dark wizards paid no heed to such restrictions. His frown deepened to a scowl as he looked at Hermione. A fierceness that he couldn't define welled up inside him as he thought of dark wizards and darker deeds. He continued his speculations in a low voice:

"Like, an older guy could completely take control of a younger girl and make her DO things . . . or convince her that he was good when he was really just a dirty, stinking Durmstr—"

Ron faltered as he glimpsed the cloudy expression on Hermione's face. "Erm, I was going to say Drama Queen," he amended.

"Honestly, Ron! What have you got against Viktor Krum? You don't really believe that he's a dark wizard, do you?" She gazed at him with a hurt expression.

It was always this way when they discussed Krum. She always assumed his disapproval of Krum was a judgment against herself. He wondered how she could believe that Durmstrang prat was innocuous. Everyone knew he was a world renowned athlete. He was stronger than her, taller than them both, and older. Everyone knew about older boys and younger girls . . . especially one Hermione Granger. How could she trust HIM when _they_ hadn't even ever . . . and HOW did she know about the supposed seduction response of the two combined magicks. Surely not from _experience_!

"Ron?" She chastised, and then with a panicked expression shouted, "OH!—duck!" She attempted to deflect Neville's charm with a heavy tome, but it struck Ron right in the chest with a violent force.

He found himself flipping over his desk and falling to the classroom floor, winded. His head struck the stone with an audible crack, but he never felt a thing. Already, his entire body was suffused with a gentle heat. It spread from his chest out through his limbs, and finally it filled his head with bright light and contentment. He rubbed his chest, marveling at the softness of his robes and looked up into Hermione's face as she fell to her knees beside him. He glanced to the left of her shoulder and spotted Neville, that wonderful boy, clutching his wand to his chest as a concerned expression marred his features. He sent him a chipper grin, and saluted Professor Flitwick as his face came into view above his own.

"Cheer Charm?" He asked Neville solemnly. The boy looked down and nodded grievously. "Well," Professor Flitwick continued, "no real harm done there. Nothing for it but to wait until it has passed. By Mr. Weasley's pupil dilation, I would give him another three hours to recover." He carefully ran his fingers over the back of Ron's head before continuing. "And it looks as though you may have a knot here, but there's no need to visit Madam Pomfrey as of yet. I can help you, here." And with that, Professor Flitwick pulled his wand from the voluminous folds of his left sleeve, muttered an incantation, and then helped Ron to rise. "Keep an eye on him, won't you Miss Granger?"

"Yes, Professor. Of course I will." She answered firmly.

With help from Seamus and Neville, they managed to get Ron back to his seat. Neville seemed devastated about his mistake. He continued to apologize profusely as they all walked out of the classroom and into the hall. In an effort to cheer him, Hermione said, "Don't worry about it Neville. After all, no one was really hurt. Things could be much, much worse." She assured him.

"Yes," agreed Ron with a laugh, "you could have given me a dose of Veritaserum and made me admit my deepest, darkest secrets to the Slytherins!"

"And what would that entail, Weasley? That you're forced to share knickers with your little sister?" Pansy Parkinson's nasty voice squeaked from behind them.

Ron turned to greet her hateful expression and his grin widened. Plucking at the fabric of her sleeve, he leaned in close and said, "Bet you'd _love_ that, wouldn't you Pansy-pug?"

It was the suggestive wink that accompanied his comment that forced Pansy to choke on her retort and scurry off down the hall towards her fellow Slytherins. Hermione, however, was no less shocked by his actions, and proceeded to thwack him on the shoulder with her Potions textbook.

"Ronald Weasley!" She breathed incredulously. "How utterly horrid and wicked!"

Ron brushed off her attack with his hands and swayed on his feet. Flinging his arms out, he fell towards her but managed to brace himself with his hands on the wall behind her.

Hermione found herself trapped between his arms as she pressed her back sharply into the wall. He watched her closely as her panting slowed and her eyes dilated from their fearful pinpricks.

Smiling a crooked grin, he replied, "My hero!—Or is it heroine?—Hermione the heroine. You saved me from falling with this convenient wall. Ta!"

She looked up at him with a confounded frown, her cheeks growing warm under his appraisal. "If that's your idea of a thank-you," she replied, "then I shudder to think what the opposite might be!" Raising her arms, she gripped the crooks of his elbows and pressed him back towards Neville and Seamus. "Could you please help him to the Great Hall?" She asked them. "I need to run to the library before going in to lunch."

"No problem, Hermione," Seamus answered with a teasing grin, "we can manage this drunken sot with no trouble at all, right Neville?"

"Right," Neville reassured her. "Have fun?" His warm comment came out more like a question. Hermione was forced to smile at his tone and nod in response before leaving them to make their ungainly way into the Great Hall.

While Ron was more than capable of walking on his own, he was constantly distracted by little things and continuously attempted to shift directions towards this person or that painting. Eventually the boys managed to get him seated at the long Gryffindor table. Once there, he waved cheerily at Fred and George, who were already seated at the long table. They laughed and waved back, plotting to send an interesting tell-all missive to their mother by the end of the day. Ron turned his head and spotted his sister Ginny seated across from him with her friends Colin and Dennis Creevey.

He slouched towards her with a great grin, saying "Hullo, Ginny!" He glanced over to Colin and Dennis and gestured towards his sister with a jerk of his thumb and head. "That's m'sister," he told them. They nodded, trading anxious smiles with one another.

He felt someone walk up behind him even as Ginny's frown became a deep scowl. Turning in his seat, he looked behind himself to see Malfoy standing by his elbow with a glass of pumpkin juice.

"Weasley," Malfoy began.

"Ferret," Ron answered, chuckling aloud as Malfoy's expression tensed with fury.

Malfoy's pale fingers clenched tightly around the glass, quivering silently, before his face broke into a condescending smile.

"I see that the rumor about Neville's Cheer Charm has proved true," he replied. "I thought that you might be due for a glass of pumpkin juice." He shook the glass gently in Ron's face. Ron laughed in confusion.

"Why would YOU want to do ME any favors, Faco?" He queried.

"Draco." Malfoy corrected firmly.

"Yeah, okay, whatever _Milt_-boy," Ron waved his hand in the air flippantly to emphasize his words. "What do you want?"

"I was out of line this morning, Weasley. I shouldn't have suggested you'd waste time making eyes at Granger. She's with Krum now, right? Besides, _we're_ both from established wizarding families, and that shouldn't be overlooked. So, look, bygones, alrigh'? Well, at least for today," he amended.

In his cheerful state, Ron accepted Malfoy's words without more than a cursory suspicion. Accepting the glass from the pale-haired Slytherin, he saluted him with the raised glass and a nod of his head. After all, who was he to refuse free pumpkin juice? He'd already begun to take a drink as he turned his face back to his tablemates.

Gulping the pumpkin juice down in three hearty swallows, he lowered the glass to see Harry seated to the left of his sister. Harry was looking at him with a confused frown and rubbed his scarred forehead absently. Watching Malfoy slink back towards the Slytherin table with an evil smirk, he asked Ron what Malfoy had wanted. Hermione echoed his question almost immediately as she walked up to the table and squeezed in beside Ron.

"What did HE want?" She asked, looking first at Harry who shrugged his shoulders and then at Ron.

"Bygones," said Ron with a lopsided grin. "Apologized for making an arse of himself this morning." He braced an arm around her shoulders in a warm hug. "Bugger admitted you weren't a waste of time!" He shook her shoulders slightly before pausing, obviously pondering something. "Wait a tick. He said you were with Krum, too."

Looking at her with a bemused expression, he watched her face flush bright red as his thoughts began to lighten. They seemed to float out of his head, leaving only softness and warmth. He turned to Harry and replied, "Hermione was in the library with Viktor."

All eyes seemed to focus on his bemused expression at this odd offering of words. There seemed to be no emotion behind them; he was neither jealous nor ecstatic. He acted as if they were spoken by someone else and failed to react at all. They all shared a round of shrugs while Hermione explained that he'd been the victim of a potent Cheer Charm. Nonetheless, she turned a concerned expression upon him.

As they all turned their eyes back to Ron, he offered them a vacant stare and a half-smile. Hermione frowned as she watched him. His stomach began doing acrobatics as he sat under her gaze. At first he mistook them for the normal twists his stomach suffered when she looked at him, but then the knots tightened, and burst. Ron doubled over, clutching his stomach in pain, even as lavender smoke began leaking from his ears.

"Ron?" Hermione called. She seemed so far away. "Ron! What's wrong?"

She gasped as she noted the signs: he was suffering from severe stomach cramps, lavender smoke was curling out of his ears, and as he looked up at her, she noted that his normally blue eyes were glazed over with an acid-green sheen of tears. Looking between Ron's anguished expression and the raucous Slytherins, who were busy laughing and pointing at him in glee, realization struck her. She tipped his empty glass and noted faint silvery traces of potion against the sides.

"He's been infected!" She cried, obviously horrified.

"With what?" Everyone seemed to call.

"Cheering Charm," she pronounced, " . . . and Veritaserum!"


	3. Chapter 3 Infected

**Chapter 3: Infected**

Overhearing their exchange, Neville turned his face to the group with his mouth agape and nearly choked as he attempted to inhale a remnant of his lunch. "Wha—!" He squawked, swallowing hard.

Beside him, Seamus glanced at Neville with a sad, knowing expression before turning to glare at the Slytherins. He offered them a few choice hand gestures before quickly turning back to the Gryffindor table, hoping neither McGonagall nor Snape had witnessed the exchange. Looking down the table, he saw Harry's mouth firm into a severe line as he gazed steadily at Hermione and Ron.

Meeting his gaze, Hermione spoke with a determined voice, "Come, Harry. We must get him to Madam Pomfrey's straight away. There is no time to lose!"

Harry hurried around the table as Hermione helped ease Ron from his seat. The cramps seemed to subside long enough for them to lead him from the Great Hall without engaging the compassionate interference of any professors. Outside the doors of the Great Hall, however, Ron fell against the wall, doubling over again in torment. Grasping his upper arms with both hands, Harry and Hermione gazed over his bowed ginger head at one another.

Sensing the deeper dread in her eyes, Harry asked, "What does it do . . . mixing the magicks? Is he poisoned?" Ron's body shuddered with a hacking cough suddenly, and he clutched the stone wall weakly. Harry hurried on, "Is there an antidote, Hermione?"

Her strained expression revealed her worry, but she gave him a tight smile and a small nod, saying, "I found it in a sidebar note in Hogwarts, A History. It's a simple three step process. First he'll be given shepherd's cowl—it's an herb that slows the process and stops the side effects." She reached a hand towards Ron's furrowed brow, brushing his hair back from his face while watching him pant roughly. She continued softly, "It has to be administered within the first hour of contamination. Otherwise, the condition could become permanent. Next, Madam Pomfrey should administer the antiserum and then a sleeping draught."

Glancing swiftly at her wristwatch, she gasped, "We should hurry," before gripping Ron's upper arm again. Together, they pulled him away from the wall.

"Hermione," Harry gasped, fighting to keep Ron on his feet, "What _is_ his condition? Will he smoke at the ears until he coughs up the truth, or something?" He tried to bring levity to the situation, but dully noted the barely repressed tears shimmering in his friend's wide brown eyes. He knew that there was something she hadn't told him, and watched her as she girded herself up to reveal the severity of the situation.

"Harry, the combination of Veritaserum and Cheer Charm . . . it's not good," she began. Ron stumbled, and they moved swiftly to move his arms around their shoulders, taking his full weight onto their backs. Hermione panted heavily, fighting to continue. "It's like a legal form of the Imperious Curse. Only a dark wizard, or a stupid Slytherin slag, would inflict it knowingly upon someone!"

"L-l-language, Miss Granger," Ron muttered under his breath as they nearly dragged him toward the hospital wing.

He fought the mind-numbing effects of the Veritaserum, finding the strength to choke, "A slag? A ruddy prat's what that one is." His weak laugh echoed off the walls eerily as they rounded the last corner leading to the hospital wing; they were greeted by a small wall of sneering Slytherins.

Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy stood at the forefront, while Crabbe and Goyle stood stationed behind them. Two other Slytherins, Larissa Pinchwhistle and Tobias Rumpleweed, completed the disreputable pack.

"Poor little Weasel," Malfoy drawled, "so afraid of the _truth_!"

The Slytherins joined him in an evil guffaw. Hermione thought she heard a gloating Pansy mutter, "Who's the pup now, Weasel-bum?"

"You!" She breathed, glaring into Pansy's face, "You witless lemming! You're the one responsible for this!" She felt her fingers frantically grasping within her robes, searching for her wand, even as Pansy ducked behind the protective wall of Crabbe and Goyle's bodies.

Harry grabbed her wrist, stilling her hand, and shook his head firmly. "No, Hermione. We'll let Dumbledore deal with them later. We have to get him to Madam Pomfrey now."

Hermione threw a strained expression his way, but relented, pushing her bushy hair from her face with a shaking hand. She wondered if she was experiencing the same kind of self-righteous anger that generally fueled Ron's temper as he defended her against the Slytherins. Did she seem as vulnerable—as precious—to him as he did to her? She exhaled impatiently, trying to think logically as she took in the situation.

"Alright, Harry," she murmured, anxiously glancing from side to side, "but how?"

As he looked around, Harry finally noted that the Slytherins had surrounded them in a menacing circle. As Harry opened his mouth to shout for Madam Pomfrey, Malfoy flung out his wand arm, calling, "_Silencio_!" Harry's throat and face strained, but no sound would come.

As she watched, horrified, Hermione found herself being gripped from behind by a thick arm around her waist even as a beefy hand clenched tightly over her mouth. She struggled, kicking out widely as she was lifted up and pulled back towards the wall. She watched Ron fall to his hands and knees as Harry was also pulled roughly aside by Crabbe.

Malfoy advanced upon Ron, who looked up at him without an inkling of suspicion. He seemed so vulnerable, kneeling before Draco with a pained, expectant look on his face. Malfoy rubbed his hands together and opened his foul mouth to speak.

Viciously, she bit her captor's hand until she drew blood. As Goyle howled in pain, Hermione fought from his embrace before turning to kick him firmly in the shin. As he doubled over, she ran, sliding to her knees beside Ron. She gripped his shoulders with one small arm and swiftly took inventory of the group as Malfoy jumped back from them, cursing 'that seething Gryffindor hellcat.'

Raising her wand in a dramatic arc, she shouted, "Expelliarmus!"

The Slytherins' wands flew from their hands to strike against the sickroom door. Bowing her head, she glanced from one to the other darkly as she trained her wand upon them. Gracelessly, she helped Ron to his feet without looking, and was relieved when Harry returned to Ron's other side. Shaking, she led the way through the Slytherins, the end of her wand sparking with anticipation.

Malfoy sneered as they passed him, but not before asking, "So, Ron, tell me. What do you think of your filthy Mudblood now?"

Harry shouted soundlessly at him as Hermione's wand came to rest beneath his chin with cool precision.

Glaring coldly into his face, she said, "Shut your mouth, Malfoy . . . or I'll have to take pleasure in doing it myself."

Ron looked blankly at Malfoy, lavender smoke spouting more thickly from his ears. A purple light winked faintly in the depths of his eyes. Smiling painfully, he offered, "I think she's bloody brilliant, of course."

Hermione flushed at his words and quickly shoved her wand into her sleeve as she heard the doors to the sickroom bang open loudly behind them.

"What is going on out here?" Madam Pomfrey called, stomping through the doors purposefully. She needed only to take in the sight of a weakened Ron, supported between his meager friends while surrounded and outnumbered by a group of Slytherins, to find her answer.

"Bullying!" She scoffed, glaring around at the Slytherins' mean-faced expressions. "Dueling in the hospital wing? You can be sure that Professors Dumbledore and Snape will hear about this. Now go!" She pointed to the end of the hall imperiously and watched as five Slytherins skulked away. Goyle, hanging back in the shadows, clutched his injured hand to his massive chest. He hesitated, his unpleasant face wrinkling with concentration as he tried to decide whether he should follow his fellow Slytherins or have Madam Pomfrey treat him for rabies.

Turning her exasperated expression back to the trio she murmured, "You three, again?" Harry and Hermione nodded solemnly while Ron stared at her blankly. The light glinted off of his technicolor-tears, giving Madam Pomfrey the impression that she was locking gazes with a cat in the dark. Firming her lips, she continued, "Alright, you two. Move him into bed number 3."

As they began to move ahead of her, into the sickroom, they heard Goyle raise his voice to complain about his hand. Madam Pomfrey moved towards him and grasped his wrist, pulling his injured hand into her line of vision. Glancing at his injury, she noticed that the bite mark had indeed broken skin, leaving it prey to infection. Sucking her teeth with an impatient—pop!— Madam Pomfrey then pushed him into the sickroom as well.

"Evens for you," she said briskly, pointing to the bed opposite Ron's on the eastern wall. "Go to bed number 4 and I will be with you shortly."


	4. Chapter 4 The Sickroom

**Chapter 4: The Sickroom**

Hermione and Harry helped ease Ron onto his assigned bed, the bedsprings protesting as Hermione pulled off his shoes before lifting his feet onto the mattress. As Goyle sat down noisily across from them, Hermione sniffed loudly, squared her shoulders, and walked over to pull the flimsy partition forward to cover them from the Slytherin's doleful eyes.

Pulling a chair forward to sit beside Harry, Hermione leaned forward to look at Ron closely as she rested her palm on the crisp sheets near his own. Harry braced his elbows on his knees as he too leaned forward, combing his messy hair out of his eyes with an impatient gesture. Both glanced up as the door to Madam Pomfrey's office door was flung open, revealing that determined lady as she stalked towards them with several bundles in her arms.

"Here," she announced, flinging a hospital robe to them impatiently. "Help him into that, please, while I see to Mr. Goyle's hand."

Next, she stepped over to Goyle's bed, pulling a medi-stool forward with her foot as she placed a basin, towels, and a tin of poultice on the table beside his bed. Taking her seat, she quietly demanded that he give her his injured palm. She looked sharply towards Ron's bed as she heard a muffled argument coming from behind the partition.

"Hermione," Harry said, trying to sound reasonable, "I appreciate your willingness to help, but I am perfectly capable of getting Ron into this hospital robe without your assistance."

"Don't relegate me to St. Mungo's quite yet, Harry—I am fully aware of your capabilities," Hermione huffed. "What I do not understand is why you are being so stubborn about this!"

"Hermione, I hate to be the one to tell you this, since the last bloke who mentioned it to you nearly lost an eye, but you _are a girl_!" Harry looked back at Ron as he said this, finding no support in his blank stare and bemused smile.

"Harry, that objection is absolutely archaic! Madam Pomfrey is a woman, yet I've never heard either of you object to her helping you in and out of your clothes." Hermione tossed her head as if this settled the debate, and began to unfold and fluff Ron's hospital gown.

Harry literally ripped the gown from her hands as he roared, "We were unconscious at the time, therefore _that doesn't count_!"

Hermione blinked owlishly in surprise at Harry's violent gesture before her face darkened into a determined scowl.

"At this point, _Harry Potter_, Ron is basically a vegetable," Hermione rejoined bitterly. "I'd say that is the same thing!"

She swiftly moved to Ron's feet, divesting them of their socks before stuffing them into his shoes. As she moved forward to remove Ron's peaked hat and unbutton his cloak, Harry's hand fell heavily onto her wrist, earning a fresh glare from his seething best friend.

"Hermione, are you mental?" Harry gasped. "Because you seem to be acting like you _want_ to see Ron starkers, or something."

Hermione's face flushed an impossible shade of crimson, the result of her combined mortification and fury, before jerking her hand back from underneath his. Her eyes went first wide with shock and then glittered dangerously as Hermione opened her mouth to put Harry in his place. She was startled from this course of action as Madam Pomfrey pulled the partition aside in a huff of her own.

"_Ms._ Granger . . . _Mr._ Potter, I will remind you two that this is a sickroom only this once. I will not have you disturbing the patients with your incessant need to quarrel. Now, what seems to be the problem here?"

Hermione was the first to regain her senses, and replied, "Madam Pomfrey, I am simply trying to help my best friend get dressed so that he may receive proper medical attention. Harry, here, is insisting that my help will break some archaic sense of propriety just because I am a female. I tried to explain that_ you_ are also a female, but—"

Madam Pomfrey interrupted her with an impatient wave of her hand. "Ms. Granger, I realize that to us, as old hands at sickroom procedures, Mr. Potter's request does seem outdated."

Hermione cut her eyes at Harry, a triumphant smile gleaming at the corners of her lips.

"However," Madam Pomfrey continued, "You are all now fourth years, and, were Mr. Weasley more responsive, I believe that he would agree with Mr. Potter."

Hermione's proud expression fell along with her eyes as she refused to meet Harry's apologetic gaze. She turned her body slightly away from her two best friends and fought back tears as Madam Pomfrey placed a firm but gentle hand to the small of her back. Pushing her forward, she finished briskly, "Now, as this job only requires one person, I will ask you now to come and assist me with Mr. Goyle while Mr. Potter divests your friend."

Hermione walked away biddably as Madam Pomfrey slid the partition back into place, blocking the view of the boys from the rest of the room. Harry crept forward, helping Ron to remove first one and then the other arm from his robe. He muttered softly, more to himself than to his freckled friend, "Dodged a bullet there, mate." He jumped slightly as Ron's hand fell heavily from his sleeve and onto Harry's shoulder. In a moment of cognizance, he met Harry's gaze and nodded before replying, "You have no idea, mate."

Hermione, during this exchange, was seated beside Goyle on bed number 4, holding a basin of magically self-sanitizing water for Madam Pomfrey. She was the first to see the platinum blonde spying through the crack in the sickroom doors. She stiffened, narrowing her eyes as he stepped more fully into the room.

"Malfoy," She growled.

Madam Pomfrey turned back to greet the new visitor. "Yes?" She queried brusquely, "Can I help you, Mr. Malfoy?"

He sidled up to the bedside, careful not to get too close to Hermione. Gesturing to Goyle, he replied, "I came to see about my friend, of course. How is he since . . . the attack?"

"The attack, Mr. Malfoy, appears to be a small bite, plain and simple." Madam Pomfrey turned back to her patient before continuing. "Ms. Granger here has been more than agreeable in helping me with his care."

"Really," Draco scoffed, "have you checked for rabies or mange yet?"

Returning his glance with a stern glare, Madam Pomfrey continued, "It is a _human_ bite, Mr. Malfoy, no doubt sustained during your earlier skirmish. Now, if you have only come to terrorize my patients with your sarcasm you can leave the same way you came. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Malfoy?"

"—As a vajra crystal, Madam Pomfrey." He returned, his cheeks flushing to a frustrated damask color.

At this point, Harry stepped around the barrier of the partition to address Madame Pomfrey. "Ron is all set, Madam Pomfrey."

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," she replied, standing up and taking the basin from Hermione's hands. "Stay here until I return, Mr. Goyle. When I get back I shall add the poultice and bandage your wound. You, Ms. Granger, are relieved of your duty and may rejoin your friends as long as you can maintain civil tongues between you."

Hermione bowed her head briefly and replied, "Yes, Madam Pomfrey. Thank you." Then she slid from Goyle's bed, inched around Malfoy as if he were contagious, and returned to Harry's side. Before stepping back behind the partition, they shared a look that forgave the other for their previous argument. Offering a quirky half-smile, Harry held the partition back for her to slide through. He paused in following her as Malfoy and Goyle began to make sloppy kissing noises behind his back. Scowling over his shoulder at them, he raised an eyebrow in challenge.

"Well, well, well, Saint Potter. Aren't you the pervy one?" Malfoy taunted. "Do you always come to the sickroom to shag your Mudblood Princess? Or is it only exciting if Weasel-bum can watch?" Goyle chuckled shortly, watching Harry close the distance between them in one fluid motion.

Harry's hands, fisted at his sides, itched to pummel the snide expression off of Malfoy's face, but he refrained with great effort. "_Accio_ bedpan," he murmured in response. Draco ducked as a sloshing pan whizzed past his head. Harry caught it easily, a nasty gleam in his eye. "You're treading on dangerous ground, Malfoy. Now skeeve off before I lose my temper and decorate your hair with the contents of this bedpan."

Wrinkling his nose at the offensive odor wafting from the open bedpan, Draco backed up against bed number 2 and glared at Harry. Goyle reflexively balled up his fists at Harry's threat, but cried out in pain as he split the skin Madam Pomfrey had just reset. Hearing his howl, that lady was not far behind in joining the fray.

"Mr. Potter, put down that bedpan this instance! You have five seconds to remove yourself from this side of the ward before I am forced to ban all visitors. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Harry answered with a sincere, "Yes, Madam Pomfrey," before sliding behind Ron's partition.

Meeting Hermione's derisive glance, he shrugged his shoulders and mouthed, "What?"

Rolling her eyes, Hermione turned back to look at Ron, saying softly, "He isn't worth it, Harry. He's just…a Malfoy."

Nodding solemnly, he replied, "I know."

He sat in the chair beside Hermione and they both glanced above Ron's head at the ward clock. Both swallowed as they realized that the hour was almost upon them.

"Harry," Hermione began anxiously, only to be interrupted by Madam Pomfrey's entrance.

"Alright," Madam Pomfrey began, "Now what seems to be wrong with Mr. Weasley?" She stepped up close to her patient, examining the lavender smoke that spouted from his ears. Gingerly lifting an eyelid, she inspected the acid-green sheen of tears as well, clucking to herself.

"He's been infected with Veritaserum, Madam Pomfrey," Harry answered.

"Morgana's Ambrosia, of course," Madam Pomfrey exclaimed. "Along with a rather potent Cheer Charm, I gather." She watched as Harry and Hermione nodded vigorously. Firming her lips into a small smile, Madam Pomfrey replied, "I have just the thing for it back in my office. Excuse me, please." Looking over to bed number 4 as she walked to her office, she called out: "Mr. Goyle . . . Mr. Malfoy, you are both free to go."

Harry and Hermione listened closely as Malfoy and Goyle shuffled from the room and shut the door with a decided thud. Sharing a small smile, Harry absently ran his hand through his mussed-up hair as he looked at Hermione. He jumped slightly as she spoke.

"So, how are you coming with your research, Harry? Have you been able to come up with a strategy for the second trial yet?"

Blushing slightly, he replied, "No, not yet. But I've solved the egg part."

"That's excellent, Harry!" Hermione enthused. "Is there anything we . . . um, I can help you with?"

Harry grimaced. "No, I'll find something soon, I'm sure."

"Oh, Harry. There are only so many days left before the next challenge. You should be in the library, not here. I'm sorry."

"For what, Hermione? You didn't do anything—this is all Malfoy's fault."

"I know, but Harry . . . I feel like it's my fault too. I could have blocked Neville's Cheer Charm better. I could have kept my mouth shut about this stupid magic-interaction. I could have—"

"You could have what, Hermione? Crippled Malfoy at birth? You did your best. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. You can't blame yourself because you couldn't protect Ron this time. Sometimes it's destiny, or fate, or whatever else you want to call it, holding you back from being the hero. You just can't save everyone, right? So, just—you know—love your friends. Be there for them when you can be. That's more than enough."

"Oh, Harry," she sniffled, giving him a watery smile.

Both jumped as Ron added, "I love you guys. You're mad as snarfflecads, but I love you."

They all shared a brief laugh before Madam Pomfrey returned, reminding them of Ron's condition.


	5. Chapter 5 The Treatment

**Chapter 5: The Treatment**

"Alright, Mr. Potter . . . Ms. Granger, I need you to step outside for a moment while I administer the first battery of tonics." Madam Pomfrey instructed. "Yes, just beyond the partition please." She gestured for them to step outside.

"Madam Pomfrey," Hermione inquired, "I don't mean to sound impudent, but why must we leave for the administration of a simple potion?"

Madam Pomfrey's face broke into a small smile as she looked at Hermione. "For it to have its full effect, it must be injected into the posterior," she explained.

Hermione blushed slightly while Harry clarified, "You mean, you have to give him a shot in the bum?"

At Madam Pomfrey's amused nod, Harry blinked rapidly, his mouth twisting slightly to the side, before slowly replying, "Yeah. We'll wait outside, then."

Pulling Hermione along by the wrist, they made a desperate exit through the gap in the partition.

"Harry! You needn't pull so hard on my wrist," Hermione admonished as they stumbled towards the hospital wing doors. Digging into the ground with her heels, she managed to pull her wrist free from his grasp. He gazed at her ruefully, watching her as she rubbed her abused wrist.

He turned away from her slightly with an apologetic smile and ran a nervous hand through his naturally-mussed hair.

"Sorry, Hermione," he began. "I just, well . . . panicked. After the past few weeks, the last thing I want to be burdened with is the image of my best mate's bare-but-for-the-freckles arse. Call it psychological self-preservation."

"Harry, that's ridiculous." Hermione scoffed. "Madam Pomfrey _asked_ us to step outside. Did you really think she was just going to flip Ron's hospital robe open and flash his . . . freckled _bits _at us?"

Hermione blushed as the words rushed past her lips, the image they suggested solidifying in her mind, but Harry took no notice as he rushed forward with his own hasty words.

"Who said anything about Ron's bits?" Harry demanded in a strained voice.

Looking hard at the flush that was slowly staining his friend's countenance, he continued with his accusations, shaking his head in growing disbelief. "You're acting so strangely today! Are you sure Ron was the only one affected by magick interaction?"

Hermione, face reddening furiously, exclaimed, "You're the one who seems to be fixated on freckled Weasley flesh, _Harry_!"

Harry took a step backwards, watching Hermione with a startled expression. Panting slightly, she crossed her arms over her chest and bowed her shoulders as if the words she was about to utter were being torn from some hiding place deep inside her brittle heart.

Meeting his eyes with a stark look, she asked plaintively, "What is so wrong with my wanting to help our friend, Harry? I've just as much right as you!"

Harry grimaced as he watched Hermione's face grow taut, struggling against the tears that threatened to overwhelm her luminous eyes.

"You always do this," she continued softly, shaking her head miserably slow, "_both_ of you. Just because I'm the **_girl_**."

Sighing harshly, Harry rubbed his burning scar in concentration as he struggled to clarify himself. "I . . . we don't mean to, Hermione."

He looked away as she turned the full brunt of her pained expression onto him. Running his hands frantically through his hair, forcing choppy pieces to stand on end, he tried to make sense of his jumbled thoughts.

For Harry, there was something so strange about watching Hermione interact with Ron so tenderly. She was always a nurturing, and at times _nagging_, influence over them both, but since the Yule Ball debacle, Harry had watched as his friends changed before his eyes.

Hermione had always been a girl—like a sister, or a mothering hen—to him, but as Harry watched the way she was becoming with Ron, something so tenuously feminine that it boggled the mind, his brain shut down. He wondered, just what _was_ so shocking about Hermione helping Ron? Maybe she only saw him in a brotherly light, like she saw Harry himself. He struggled to figure out why was his brain was so fiercely determined to portray her intentions as less than honorable.

"Who knows, Hermione?" Harry finally mumbled. Rolling his eyes at his own confusion, he replied, "I don't know why I'm being such a prat. Maybe I was more concerned about youwanting to play medi-nurse with his . . . er . . . ." He gestured loosely at his clothes with his hands, trying to find the words to defend his unease. Failing, he finished lamely by saying, "Um, than I should have been."

"What!" Hermione squeaked, her eyes rounding in shock. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

Hermione paled as she uttered the words. She covered her horrified expression with both hands as her mind raced, putting together the puzzling subtext underlying Harry's cryptic accusation. Gaping at him, she concluded that he must think that she was a perverted witch who dreamed of nothing better than molesting her incapacitated friend!

"No!" Harry interjected, sensing the turn of her thoughts as he watched the wheels in Hermione's mind spin furiously. As he recognized his blunder, his eyes grew so wide that his glasses threatened to fall off of his face, and he sputtered, "Nothing, Hermione . . . I didn't mean anything by that. Look, it's just that you've been very . . . _hands-on _with Ron today. You know, more so than usual."

Noting his friend's increasingly dismayed expression, he rushed on to clarify himself. "I mean . . . not that you _meant_ anything by it. Look, I know you want to help, Hermione, but I don't think Ron would appreciate _you_, or **us**, gazing at him in the all-together . . . or even in the nearly all-together . . . even for clinical reasons, you know? I just don't want to embarrass him . . . or you—"

"You embarrassed yourself, Potter," a voice from the other side of the hospital wing door taunted.

Frowning at one another, Harry and Hermione moved forward to see who was lurking behind the hospital wing door.

"Alright, Mr. Weasley," Madam Pomfrey said, placing a hand on Ron's shoulder. "Open your mouth, please. Yes, there's a good boy."

She proceeded to place a dropper in his mouth and dripped three drops of a cloudy liquid onto his tongue. Next, she helped him close his mouth with a firm hand under his jaw and replied, "Now don't swallow that Mr. Weasley. Let it set on your tongue for a moment."

She tilted his head back, and pulled an eyelid open, watching as the acid-green sheen receded to the corners of his eyes. Wiping the excess away with a gentle thumb, she watched as his eyes quickly dilated. Soon he was wresting his face free from her gentle grip, and rubbing his eyes with loosely fisted hands.

"_Malfoy_," Harry muttered, the word turning his mouth sour.

Harry and Hermione stood in the open doorway, staring at the pale-haired Slytherin who lounged so casually against the opposite doorjamb. In the shadows to their right, they could see Crabbe and Goyle's hulking forms slouching against the opposite wall as well.

"Yes, Potter?" Malfoy answered as a small smirk pricked at the corners of his mouth.

"Did you have something to say, Malfoy?" Hermione asked, cocking an arrogant eyebrow at him in challenge. Surreptitiously, she glanced at Harry as she crossed her arms tightly across her chest.

Draco chuckled softly at her posturing and pushed himself away from the doorframe. Sharing a smile with his mates, he turned back to face Harry and Hermione with a raised eyebrow of his own. Looking back at Harry, he drawled, "She does act a bit brazen, doesn't she, Saint Potter? Yes. Just like a—oh, what did Measley-Weasley call her?—a **Scarlet Woman**!"

Hermione gasped before clamping her mouth closed, hard. She looked at Harry with a fierce frown, daring him to confirm Malfoy's statement.

"Brazen, Malfoy?" Harry answered quickly. "Don't you mean brilliant? You're just sulking because Hermione put a stop to your little prank. Didn't get to enjoy a bit of it, did you? Don't worry though; I'm sure Dumbledore will have plenty of amusing things to share when I tell him about your penchant for illegal Imperious Curses!"

Malfoy's face crumpled into a fierce scowl before he sputtered, "And what exactly will you tell him, Potter? You can't prove that I did anything and you know it. Why don't you stop deflecting and admit it . . . you're jealous!"

"Jealous of you, Ferret?" Hermione interjected. "In what warped sense of wizarding reality would anyone EVER be jealous of _you_?"

Hermione's fit of pique, rather than enraging Draco, merely seemed to bring him a cold satisfaction. Allowing his gaze to absorb her fiery expression and heaving chest, he stepped closer to Harry, cocked his head to the side, and dropped his voice to a stage-whisper.

"It seems like the Mudblood bitch is certainly in heat, but not for you, Potter."

Taking a few steps back, he threw his hands up in a nonchalant pose. Draco chuckled softly as Hermione and Harry struggled under one another's restraining hands before quietly adding: "First she dumps you for Krum, and now Krum for the Weasel— it's pathetic!"

"Come on, Harry," Hermione urged. "Ignore his prattle. Madam Pomfrey may have finished . . . we should go and check on Ron."

Harry shook free from her grasp and moved to face Malfoy. Panting with outrage, Harry glanced at him with a dark expression.

"Don't call her that again, Malfoy, or you'll live to regret it." Harry muttered ominously.

Draco brushed an invisible speck of dirt from his uniform and continued to smirk at Harry as Crabbe and Goyle moved to position themselves behind their leader once again. Feeling confident, Malfoy leaned closer to Harry until he could feel the heat emanating from his body.

"Look how it makes you squirm, Potter!" Malfoy mocked.

"Embarrassed?" He continued. "Embarrassed, you said. Let's face it— you're only worried that Rita Skeeter will make this new development known. Let's picture the headline, shall we? **_'Potter Cast-off Seeks Weasel Love.'_** How charming! Or maybe you don't want your little Mudblood comparing Weasley's _bits_ and baubles to your own . . . feeling insecure there, Potter?"

Scoffing, Hermione growled, "You _wish_, Malfoy."

Madam Pomfrey's face broke into a small smile as she looked at her scowling patient.

"Welcome back to the world, Mr. Weasley." She said brightly.

Ron finished rubbing his eyes and blinked rapidly as he collapsed against the pillows on his hospital ward bed. Looking up at Madam Pomfrey, he watched her lean over him to press a hand to his forehead and cheek. He felt his mind start to emerge from the cottony layers that had so recently occupied his skull.

Inhaling sharply, he met Madam Pomfrey's gaze and asked, "What happened?"

"It seems you were infected by a Cheer Charm and Veritaserum, Mr. Weasley."

"What?" He squeaked. He closed his eyes sharply and ran a hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck absently. "But . . . how?"

"That I am unsure of, Mr. Weasley." Madam Pomfrey answered. "I am only here to counteract the curse, not to pinpoint the culprits. I leave that duty to the headmaster. However, I would wager that one, if not all, of the Slytherins I spied earlier in the hallway had something to do with it."

Ron's mind cleared a bit more and he began to remember the events of the day. He could still feel the remnants of Neville's Cheer Charm creeping through his veins as it worked its way out of his system. He could remember _that_, being struck by the Cheer Charm in Flitwick's class, but he couldn't remember when he had ingested the Veritaserum. He crept slowly through his memories, and found himself stumbling into the Great Hall . . . sitting with Ginny and the Creeveys . . . accepting Malfoy's offered pumpkin juice. His expression hardened as he focused on the drink, recalling how the liquid had seemed cloyingly sweet and thick . . . .

"Malfoy!" He growled, his eyes opening to flash with anger. Madam Pomfrey firmed her lips as she met his gaze and reached a hand into the front pocket of her apron.

"It is not the Who, but the healing I am concerned with, Mr. Weasley. Now, please turn over onto your side so that I can administer the second potion."

"What?" Ron gasped, scandalized. "What is that? Not one of those Muggle hypothermic needles!"

Madam Pomfrey stopped to pat Ron's hand as she watched the color drain slowly from his face. "It's alright, Mr. Weasley. The needle is charmed to cause no pain. But I must administer the antiserum soon."

"Wait," Ron pleaded. "Please . . . I really just don't understand. Okay, I remember Hermione said something about a three step cure . . . um, something about the antiserum and a sleeping draught . . . ."

"Yes, Mr. Weasley," Madam Pomfrey affirmed. "She must have read up on the disorder. As late as five years ago, the only treatment for your condition was a combination of shepherd's cowl, antiserum, and a sleeping draught."

"Yeah," Ron interjected. "And the shepherd's cowl is supposed to stop the symptoms, which explains why I'm thinking more clearly."

"Actually, the shepherd's cowl only puts an end to your physical symptoms, Mr. Weasley." Madam Pomfrey replied before continuing excitedly. "It clears the sinuses, which puts to right the lacrimal glands, the eustachian tubes and auditory canals, and then, of course, the gastro-intestinal tract!"

Noting Ron's confused and nearly horrified expression, Madam Pomfrey clarified, "It cures the acid green tears, lavender ear smoke, and stomach cramps."

Ron nodded slowly, pursing his lips as his eyes cast about furtively for anything else to look at. Tightening her lips in response, Madam Pomfrey continued, replying, "As I was saying before, five years ago there was only a three-step treatment that included shepherds cowl, antiserum, and a sleeping draught.

"Four years ago, however, Professor Snape and I discovered an alternative treatment that incorporates the sententiae clarus thistle."

"Wait . . . that's Latin isn't it?" Ron interjected.

"Yes, Mr. Weasley. It means 'clear thoughts' or 'clear thinking' thistle." Madam Pomfrey answered.

"By adding the sententiae clarus thistle to the shepherd's cowl," she explained, "the potion not only stops the patient's physical symptoms but also clears up the remaining effect of the Cheer Charm. The patient is fully cognizant of their actions thereafter. Unfortunately, the effect of the Veritaserum must still be counteracted by an injection of antiserum. As the antiserum clears the Veritaserum from the patient's system, it tends to leave them incredibly fatigued. Hence, the sleeping draught," Madam Pomfrey concluded.

"And in this scenario, I am the patient, right?" Ron asked.

"_Yes_, Mr. Weasley," Madam Pomfrey answered, sounding a bit exasperated. "We'll keep you overnight for observation, and by tomorrow morning you should be right as rain."

"But don't the effects of the Veritaserum wear off on their own? I could just go back to class and let it . . . ." He began to swing his legs from the hospital bed as he spoke, and Madam Pomfrey moved quickly to push him back into bed with a firm shove.

"Absolutely _not_, Mr. Weasley!" Madam Pomfrey commanded. "The antiserum is essential. While you may not realize it, you are still operating under the potion's effects. You may feel clear-headed, and in complete control of your faculties, but you will still feel compelled to answer anything asked of you truthfully. Do you really want to take a chance and expose some of your darker secrets to everyone?"

"Well . . . no, Madam Pomfrey," Ron answered slowly. "But I don't think—"

"How old were you when you stopped wetting the bed, Mr. Weasley." Madam Pomfrey interjected with a dry expression.

"Eight. But I don't see . . . _Oh_." Ron felt heat rising from his neck and ears to the roots of his ginger hair and he groaned aloud. "Oh, for the love of Merlin!"

"You see, Mr. Weasley," Madam Pomfrey added, glancing at him sadly. "I can't allow you to leave the sickroom in such a weakened condition."

Sighing in resignation, he stared forward for a few moments contemplating the inevitable. He wondered whether he should still risk it. After all, he thought, what were the chances that Hermione would ask the same question? Or Harry? Meeting Madam Pomfrey's gaze once more, he shuddered. In their gray depths he spied an answer to his question that he did not want to ponder further. He could tell that she was willing to ask far more probing questions, and that she was not above inquiring in front of his friends in order to prove her point. Ron shifted restlessly against his pillows and again rubbed his eyes with frustrated hands.

"Can I please just have a moment, Madam Pomfrey. My head hurts."

"Yes, Mr. Weasley, I'm sure that this is all pretty shocking." Madam Pomfrey seemed to consider his request very carefully before responding. "Very well. I needed to go back into my office to retrieve the vial of antiserum for your injection anyway. I will leave you fifteen minutes to collect yourself while I brew your sleeping draft, but then we will conclude your treatment."

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey." Ron said quietly, sighing dejectedly at her firm tone.

He watched as she slipped through the partition surrounding his bed and heard her sweeping purposefully back towards her office.

"Bloody _tyrant_," he muttered bitterly, crossing his arms across his chest in a mild huff.

Cocking his head to the other side, he heard a brief scuffle and lowered voices issuing from the hallway outside the sick ward.

Turning swiftly to grip Harry's forearm, Hermione whispered desperately into his ear.

"The cup, Harry! I left it with Ginny in the Great Hall. We DO have proof."

"What? Hermione, what are you talking about?" Harry whispered fervently as his eyes met Malfoy's over Hermione's shoulder. He pursed his lips derisively as Malfoy blew him a taunting kiss and met Hermione's gaze as she shifted impatiently from one foot to the other.

She met his gaze dead on, forcing herself to calmly whisper, "Let's stop this now, Harry. We have proof that we can take to Dumbledore once Ron is cured. Let's go. Malfoy loves to rile us up, but he has no power over us. If we allow him to continue to detain us out here, he wins. We should be with our friend, Harry . . . not wasting time with this notorious prat."

She watched as Harry waffled between taking her advice and hexing Malfoy into next week. After a brief struggle he relented.

"You're right. Let's go then." Harry opened the door for Hermione and urged her to precede him into the hospital wing. Straightening his glasses, he moved to follow her.

"Coward." Malfoy hissed.

Pausing in the doorway, Harry watched as Hermione moved further into the sickroom, obviously having missed the Slytherin's taunt. He could also see Madame Pomfrey's retreating form once again disappearing into her office at the back of the hospital wing. Taking a step back into the hallway, he pulled the door nearly closed behind himself. His hand still on the door handle, he turned to meet Draco's cold glare with an inquisitive squint. Sliding his glasses higher up on his nose with a slow finger, he said:

"What are you really after, Malfoy?"


	6. Chapter 6 Confrontations

**Chapter 6: Confrontations**

Hermione ducked behind Ron's partition and stopped short as she took in the sight of him. He lay back on his pillow with an arm flung over his face, groaning incoherently as his lower limbs fought valiantly to kick off his clinging bed sheets. Pausing in his struggles, he lifted his hips off of the mattress to move lower on the hospital bed. Hermione's mouth opened with a slight gasp of surprise, and she watched in horror as his robe shifted to expose a healthy expanse of Weasley skin. Her eyes skimmed his thin, freckled calves, noting the sparse strawberry-blonde hairs that winked at her in the afternoon sunlight, and watched as her friend froze upon the bed before her.

Dragging his hand slowly down his face, his eyes opening slightly to squint at Hermione's shocked expression, Ron groaned dismally and writhed against his sheets in misery.

"Ron?" Hermione asked with concern, overcoming her initial shock and embarrassment to step up close to his bedside. She looked down at him cautiously, commanding her eyes to behave themselves and focus on his face rather than the tempting limbs below his waist. She cleared her throat nervously as a stray thought flitted through her mind—_What exactly do those little ginger hairs feel like?_

Turning his head away, he refused to look at her, choosing instead to renew the struggle with his evil hospital robe and the bed sheets that refused to obey him. Grunting with the effort, he twisted, limbs flailing as his hands blindly sought the sheets that refused to untangle from around his feet. Mistaking his movements for some kind of spell-induced fit, Hermione fought to take his wrists in her tiny hands as she tried to stop him from shifting so restlessly on his bed.

"Ron, what's wrong?" She gasped.

"I'm embarrassed," he muttered, rolling his eyes at his lack of control. Begrudgingly, he noticed that while he couldn't stop himself from telling her the truth he'd still managed to maintain control over his volume.

Hermione frowned slightly as she heard him mumble incoherently.

"Madam Pomfrey!—" She called suddenly.

"Hermione, stop!" Ron sputtered. Softly, he disengaged his wrists from her grip and turned forlorn eyes to hers.

"Oh, Ron . . . is it the potion? Some interaction or . . . should I get Madam Pomfrey?" She began to move towards the foot of the bed as if she were headed towards Madam Pomfrey's office before stopping to shake her head violently, obviously debating herself over the appropriate course of action.

"Where _is_ she?" She muttered desperately to herself, turning back to pace towards the head of the bed.

Leaning forward, Ron reached out to grasp her wrist, stopping her from moving any farther towards Madam Pomfrey's office. The sudden momentum, caused by her change in direction and Ron's tugging, forced Hermione to fall sideways onto Ron's bed.

Hermione stiffened as she found herself splayed across Ron's lap, her face wedged into the bedclothes bunched around his waist and hips. Carefully raising her arms and face, she frantically padded the sheets with her hands, trying to figure out how to rise from the unseemly position without groping her friend. She began to slide backwards across his abdomen when Ron's hands suddenly gripped her upper arms, stopping her. She could feel him shaking beneath her and flushed as she turned onto her hip, bravely forcing herself to look up at him.

The prat was laughing at her! Hermione watched Ron's head fall back as he began to openly laugh out loud, his hair falling across his tightly closed eyes. She could hardly believe it. One minute she was trying to help her friend, the next she found herself sprawled atop him like a true scarlet woman, and his response was to laugh at her! She struggled to sit up, smacking him soundly across his stomach and chest until, howling in pain, he released her. She sat up fully and was about to slide off the edge of the bed, leaving him to lick his own well-deserved wounds, when she realized that his hospital robe was still neatly knotted shut.

Gaping, she asked, "Ron, hasn't Madam Pomfrey given you a shot yet?"

She watched him shake his head, still clutching the belly made tender by her recent attack. She sucked in a deep breath, her brows rising high in surprise as she concluded that Ron wasn't really laughing at her—he was still infected!

"Oh, Ron! Oh, no. I'm so sorry . . . I thought . . . oh, how could I be so stupid! You poor thing . . . ." She leaned forward to brush his hair back from his forehead, running her hands down the sides of his face.

Slowly, his moaning stopped, and he opened his eyes to look right at her. She blushed under his frank appraisal, dropping her hands to pat his neck and shoulders in apology. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought he was fully conscious as he looked at her. More shocking was the fact that his gaze held no recrimination. In fact, as Hermione's cheeks heated furiously again, she surmised that he seemed to be looking at her as if she were right where she belonged, at his side, and that he wanted to kiss her.

Brushing the absurd thoughts aside, she laughed out loud at herself and sat back on the bed. She fitted her hip into the notch of his waist and looked first at the floor and then back towards the hospital doors through which Harry had yet to come.

"I mean it, Malfoy," Harry replied softly. "What do you want?"

"I'm a Malfoy, Potter," Draco scoffed. "I want for _nothing_."

"And yet, you spend the majority of your time shadowing me and my friends." Harry retorted, leaning back against the doorframe as he confidently crossed his arms over his chest. "So tell me, Malfoy, do you have some ulterior motive here or are you simply harboring a love that dare not speak its name?"

Draco nearly turned purple as he looked from Harry's confident stance to Goyle's confused expression, but he looked absolutely apoplectic as he turned to Crabbe, who had turned his face into the corner of the wall to smother his giggles.

Smacking his henchman on the arm he screamed, "What the bloody hell are you _laughing_ at?"

Crabbe rubbed his upper arm with an absent hand as he fought to control himself. Pointing towards Harry with his opposite hand, he answered, "He just asked if you had a crush on him, Draco! And we **do** seem to follow him around quite a bit . . . ."

"Oh, really, Crabbe?" Malfoy asked menacingly. "_We_ do, huh? Are **you** trying to tell **me** something, mate?"

"What?" Crabbe asked, his face falling immediately as he glanced anxiously between Malfoy and Harry. "No, Draco . . . no! You know that . . . I'm just here for the pride of Slytherin . . . to keep the Gryffindors in their place—"

"That's right!" Malfoy added, popping him in the chest. "And don't you forget it."

"Oh . . . go easy on the boy, Draco," a silky voice interjected. "We can't all be as clever as you."

The four boys turned to watch Pansy Parkinson sashay back onto the scene. Tapping a flimsy scroll against her open palm with one hand, a slow smile broke across her features. Unfurling the parchment slowly, Pansy handed the document to Draco with a sly glance. "Just a little love-note from the Head of Slytherin, Draco . . . I thought you'd be intrigued."

Taking up the spot between Crabbe and Goyle, Harry watched as Pansy leaned back against the wall opposite himself. Licking her lips in malicious glee, she sized him up coyly before bursting into giggles.

Drawing himself up defensively, Harry fought the impulse to rip the paper from Malfoy's hands. He had only just counted silently to ten when Draco finally looked up from the parchment, sharing a wicked grin with his fellow Slytherins. Stepping forward to face Pansy, he asked in a low voice, "This is from Professor Snape? But it's signed here by Dumbledore . . . ."

"I was sent by Professor Snape to collect one, Harry James Potter, to Dumbledore's office." Letting her mouth curl into a disgruntled pout, she added, "It's in preparation for the Second Task . . . some preliminary examination, Professor Snape said."

Malfoy shared her frown for a moment before turning back to Harry. "It would seem your presence is required elsewhere, Potter." Malfoy replied, holding the parchment out to Harry. "It seems as if we shall have the duty of escorting you to the Headmaster's office as well."

Tearing the parchment from his hands, Harry quickly scanned the note. Easily verifying Dumbledore's script with a glance, Harry looked first up at the Slytherins and then back at the hospital wing doors. "Alright," he replied finally, rolling the parchment between his hands, "I'll go to the Headmaster's directly." Turning, he moved to enter the hospital wing.

"And where do you think you're going now, Potter?" Malfoy inquired, the malice behind his words stopping Harry in his tracks.

Turning sideways to face him, his hand on the doorknob, Harry replied, "I'm just going to tell Hermione where I've gone. Why? Miss me already, Malfoy?"

Laughing bitterly, Draco answered, "You wish, Potter."

"Besides," Pansy interjected, moving forward to draw a finger down the length of the scroll, "that's not in the plan, Potter."

"Oh?" Harry asked, growing annoyed with Pansy's forward behavior. This was the same tart that was responsible for his friend's infection, and he wasn't going to forget it any time soon. Ron was the first friend Harry had ever made—he was brave, he was loyal, and he was one of a kind. He treasured his friendship like nothing else in the whole wide world. There was no way any of these Slytherin slags were ever going to put him in danger again; he'd make sure of that. "And what exactly is the plan, patsy?"

"Pansy." She corrected.

"He knew that." Malfoy pointed out, narrowing his eyes at Harry.

Huffing softly, Pansy clarified, "My orders were to remove you directly to the Headmaster's office, Potter. Professor Snape was emphatically clear; you are not to tell either Weasley or that chipmunk upstart Granger where you are going. He sent Slytherins to do the job because he knew we could guarantee this level of . . . discretion."

"Better a chipmunk than a pug-faced bitch, Pansy." Harry said vehemently. "And no one would ever accuse _you_ of being discreet."

"Stand down, Potter." Malfoy interjected, watching Pansy's face turn a mottled shade of magenta. "You read the note yourself. You'd better hurry along now with Crabbe and Goyle before you disappointment your hero Dumbledore."

"_Pug-faced_!" Pansy screeched, refusing to be put off. "Pug-faced? You know what, Potter? You're right. In your world, where a bucktoothed Mudblood is considered preferable, I'll take your insult. By comparison alone, the rest of the wizarding world must think I'm Aphrodite herself."

"Just thinking it won't make it so," Harry answered quickly, refusing to let this foul-mouthed harpy abuse his friends. "You should just get over yourself, Parkinson, because you're never going to be as loyal, as smart, or as bloody BEAUTIFUL as Hermione!"

"You—!" Pansy began, sputtering incoherently as she attempted to form a verbal attack. She was distracted by Goyle's barely contained chuckles. Rushing over to him, she grasped his arm in her claw-like grip and shook him violently. "What are you laughing at, you halfwit?"

Goyle shook off her grasp, taking deep breaths to calm his chuckles. Meeting her glance with a defiant look, he bellowed, "Well, he's got a point, doesn't he? You'll never be as loyal or smart as Hermione . . . not to _him_! And if you could see your face right now you'd see you're not in the best of looks either."

Huffing in fury, Pansy reached into the sleeve of her robes to remove the latest issue of the _Daily Prophet_. Wringing it between stern hands, she finally unleashed her temper upon Goyle by beating him about the shoulders and face with the rolled-up newspaper. She howled in outrage as Crabbe came up behind her to pick her up, holding her back from doing anymore damage to his fellow henchman.

"Goyle," Malfoy interjected. "Perhaps you should go ahead and take Potter to Dumbledore's office while Crabbe and I calm Pansy."

Before Harry could fully protest, Goyle had moved forward to twist his arm behind his back. "Come along, you Gryffindor git," he mumbled, pushing Harry away from the door and down the hall.

"This isn't over, Malfoy!" Harry called over his shoulder. "You _will_ have your time with the Headmaster . . . I'll see to it!"

Draco watched them depart until they had turned the corner before turning back to Crabbe and Pansy. He rolled his eyes at the pair, noting that the once kicking and screeching Pansy now stood within the circle of Crabbe's arms with her head bowed forward, listening to his fervent whispers which reassured her that she _was_ beautiful when she was angry and that Goyle must have spent too much time in the hospital wing with the Gryffindors to show such disloyalty to her.

"You'll see," he finished quietly, his arms loosening around her until she was standing on her own. "Those Gryffs must've enchanted his bandage or something. By tomorrow we'll all be back to normal."

"True," Pansy agreed quietly, stepping out of Crabbe's arms while smoothing her hair down.

"Right," Malfoy interjected. "All will be back to normal tomorrow, but I want to have some fun today."

Moving towards the hospital wing doors, Malfoy pauses as he feels a hand grip his elbow.

"Draco?" Pansy asks quietly before biting her lower lip, obviously confused by his cryptic declaration.

"Now that you've regained your senses, you should hurry along to make sure Potter gets to his destination un-bruised," Malfoy told her. "I have some unfinished business here with the Weasel."

"Oh, Draco," she squealed. "Let me stay and play, _please_!"

Draco shook his head sadly, pointing towards the end of the hall. "I'd like to say yes, Pansy, but you're expected with Potter. Professor Snape won't be pleased if the person he sent doesn't return."

"I know," she answered quietly, her lower lip protruding slightly. "But you'll tell me everything at dinner, right?"

Draco's smile lit up the hall as he moved to open the door. "Sure . . . if you're good." He teased.

Rolling her eyes softly before returning his grin, Pansy moved to link arms with Crabbe. "Come along, Crabbe. Let's see if we can catch up to them."

He watched them march down the hallway, before turning back to the doors. Making sure to make no noise, he slipped through the doorway and padded across the floor to Ron's partition.

Harry's voice carried into the sickroom, and Hermione froze over Ron as she was tucking his sheets under his arms. Meeting his startled gaze, she collapsed on the bed beside Ron in a fit of giggles, leaning heavily against his side.

Ron could only stare up at her, at her face which was so close to his own that her laughter wafted across his cheeks in warm puffs. He felt the heat seeping into his skin as he realized that her arms now bracketed his body, with her left hand resting just inside the elbow of his right arm, and her right hand nestled beside his left shoulder. He noted the way her hair shook around her shoulders as she was wracked by mirth.

The curls fell forward, tantalizingly close to the knuckles of his raised right hand. He watched as his fingers flexed slowly before capturing a nearby curl, tugging it softly as he allowed the strands to slip between the pads of his fingers. He dropped the curl guiltily as she suddenly sat back, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. Breathing slowly, she finally turned her gaze to his.

"Oh yes…I am _so_ beautiful." Hermione joked. "Aren't you just enthralled by my beauty, Ron?"

Rolling her eyes in disbelief, Hermione laughed softly as Pansy's piercing shrieks of fury ricocheted through the sickroom along with the loud—thwack!—her copy of the _Daily Prophet_ made as she slapped the recalcitrant Goyle about the shoulders for his impertinence.

Somehow, Ron managed to block the noise from his mind as he finally allowed himself to focus on Hermione. He looked at her then, watched as her head tilted just so as she chuckled self-deprecatingly. He marveled at the way the sunlight sparkled off of her white smile and golden skin. She ran her hands through her hair, fluffing the maddening curls with wicked glee before moving to lean over him to reach something that had caught her eye, causing him to inhale quickly in surprise.

She picked up his peaked hat from the bedside table and fiddled with the tip absently as she moved back, shifting her small hips to seat herself more firmly on the bed, just inside the notch between his hips and lower ribs. Finally, her honey-glazed eyes caught his and her lips shifted into a cheeky grin, inviting him to join her in a laugh.

He stared at her, feeling something inside him go still. He recognized it as his own fear, his trepidation about acting on the growing tendrils of attraction that were snaking their way from his heart to hers, binding him to Hermione with an inexpressible desire. Ron steeled himself against what he knew was coming. His features settled into a determined expression as he felt the words humming through his veins, manipulating his vocal chords, and stealing his breath. Swallowing briefly, his gaze fell to admire her tiny hands as they rested on her knee, manipulating his hat with slight fingers, before he finally moved his hand over hers, stroking the skin with a light, reverent touch.

Softly, he replied, "Yes, Hermione. I am."

Hermione sat up straight, nearly withdrawing her hand in shock.

"What did you say?" She choked out, her golden eyes glistening with restrained emotion as they met and caught his own.

Taking a deep breath before cupping her hand with his full palm, Ron steeled himself against her reaction. Now, as before, the words came unbidden from his mouth, but he spoke slowly and clearly, daring her to scorn him.

"I said yes, Hermione," Ron replied, pausing to swallow, hard, before continuing. "I _am_ enthralled by your beauty."

After the words left his mouth, self-doubt returned full-force to the forefront of his mind. He watched her wordlessly, his fears plainly marring his face as he monitored her reaction.

Her mouth opened briefly in shock before snapping itself shut. His heart nearly cleaved itself in two as she withdrew her hand from beneath his own. He watched her press it against her stomach as if she were struggling to breathe, and as he raised his eyes to her face her eyes burned into his with a fervor he couldn't define. His lungs began to burn painfully, and his chest felt impossibly full, weighted down by the force of his words. He felt, rather than saw, her other hand slowly creep into his own as her face slowly, finally, broke into a smile.

"_Honestly_, Ron?" She breathed girlishly, blushing as she boldly interlaced her fingers with his.

"**Honestly**, Hermione," he answered eagerly, squeezing her hand to emphasize his words.

The pair barely reacted as the partition parted to admit a newcomer.

"Ah . . . what a surprise," a ferrety voice invaded the space, causing them to drop one another's hand in response. As Malfoy took in the scene his face cracked into a glee-filled smirk. "Oh . . . so _that's_ how it is, Granger."

Straightening her back, but refusing to rise from the hospital bed, Hermione met his gaze full on, tossing her head at his impertinence.

"What are you implying, Malfoy?" She asked haughtily.

"Just relishing the evidence of what I've suspected all along, Granger." Malfoy rejoined.

"Oh?" Hermione scoffed. "Enlighten me—which suspicions generally occupy the ferret mind?"

Gaze hardening, he replied, "Well, you do get around, don't you, Granger? First Potter, then Krum, and now . . . trading _down_, I see."

Ron felt Hermione's body stiffen almost imperceptibly as she scathingly sputtered, "You pompous—git! Your ignorance is staggering."

Malfoy slowly paced before them, stalking his prey. Finally, he came to a stop by the window, leaning his slight frame against it before continuing.

"So . . . they pass you between them, eh? I didn't realize that you liked to play it fast and loose like that, Mudblood."

"You're disgusting!" She snarled, almost leaping off of the bed at him. Ron stayed her with a hand on her leg and another on her waist, sitting up to hold her in a loose embrace. Gripping his hands with her own, she stilled her movements, fighting to catch her breath. Her face flushed, and her eyes flashed indignantly. Dropping her voice into softer tones, she continued.

"What rubbish! Your home-life must be simply _deranged_, Malfoy."

"Hmm . . . what's disturbing, Granger, is that Potter doesn't seem to be aware of this . . . _development_." Draco said, his mouth curling into a feral grin. Tapping a finger against his chin, he pretended to ponder the situation. "Perhaps he should be . . . ."

"Oh, stuff it, ferret!" Ron and Hermione cried simultaneously. Surprised, they caught one another's eye. Blushing furiously in response, suddenly shy, they hastily looked away. Mindful of the exchange, Malfoy's smirk blossomed into a spiteful grin.

"Okay, you two _aren't_ together." He amended slyly. "You just snog a bit here and there?"

He watched them scoff and regrouped, pushing home his point with a skeptically raised eyebrow.

"Hmm," he continued, tilting his head to one side. "Maybe not . . . but you _definitely_ want to!"

Rolling her eyes, Hermione folded her arms across her chest and huffed. Almost as an aside she growled, "Tend to your henchmen, Malfoy. Psychology is obviously **not** your forte."

Ignoring her, Malfoy continued, his gaze seizing on the look of growing concern and guilt that marred Ron's rueful face. Seizing upon the weakness, Malfoy went in for the kill.

"I'm right, aren't I, Weasley? You can barely wait to be alone with Granger here . . . to start a brood of ginger-nap brats, no doubt."

Ron's soft, "Yes," was completely dwarfed by Hermione's impassioned response.

"What?" She growled menacingly. "You're absolutely **mental**!"

Laughing softly, Malfoy replied, "Sounds like a case of the lady protesting too much, though no one could ever mistake you for a lady, Granger."

Stepping closer to the bed, he watched Ron's embrace tighten, restraining Hermione from attacking him.

"I hate to be trite," she finally ground out in response, "but I'm more of a man than you'll ever be, and more of a lady than you'll ever get, you cretin!"

Ignoring her outburst, he caught Ron's gaze and continued.

"What about you, Weasley? Ever thought about snogging _Miss Granger_ here?"

"Malfoy . . . ." Hermione warned. She paused as Ron's grip tightened on her waist. Looking up, she saw Ron's eyes close, shutting tightly as he obviously struggled to contain something. She was about to continue when his soft, breathy response cut her short.

"Yes." He replied solemnly, turning to look at Malfoy dead on.

"Oh, we have a live one!" Malfoy crowed.

"Stop it, Malfoy," Hermione demanded, raising her hand absently to brush Ron's hair back from his face. Steeling herself against Malfoy's vindictiveness, she finished. "—that's enough."

Gracing her with a nasty expression, Malfoy replied. "Not until I say _when_, Mudblood."

Seating himself upon the bedside chair, Malfoy took up a serious pose before continuing.

"Now, Mr. Weasley . . . you say you've thought about snogging Miss Granger, but have you ever _acted_ on your . . . desires?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Hermione interjected, even as Ron calmly replied, "No."

"See, Malfoy?" She continued, "You just—"

"Did you want to?" Malfoy interrupted, raising his steepled fingers before his face as he slumped low in his chair. His eyes bored into Ron's as if they alone could ferret out the information.

"Yes." Ron responded clearly, inspiring a shocked gasp from Hermione.

"Ron?" She whispered, her face wrinkling in concern.

"When?" Malfoy broke in excitedly, "—this morning; last week; the Yule Ball?" Getting no immediate response from his rapid fire questions, he settled on one final inquiry.

"Okay, Weasley. How often do you think about it?"

"Draco, just stop—!" Hermione interjected, pleading softly.

"Every . . . Everyday." Ron answered defiantly, lifting his chin and daring Draco to ridicule him. Still, he was unable to look the object of his affection in the eye, fearful of seeing nothing but pity or disgust there.

While the Veritaserum forced him to answer, he was determined to show Malfoy that he was not ashamed. While he might never be worthy of Hermione's returned affection, he had felt something pass between them that convinced him to hope. He loved her . . . he would not fear it.

She deserved no less than his Gryffindor best.

"Just everyday?" Malfoy wheedled. "What about the nights?"

Hermione balked at his suggestive leer. "You pervert," she accused menacingly. "Just stop it! Stop putting words in his mouth—!"

"Yes." Ron answered firmly, raising his voice in conviction. "Every night since . . . before the Yule Ball."

Hermione looked at him in surprise, her face revealing her internal struggle as she too dared to hope. Ron could tell that she wanted his words to be true, but, dishearteningly, she couldn't quite believe that they were.

"_Priceless_!" Malfoy shouted gleefully. "And you've never acted on your impulses?"

Ron met Hermione's gaze, smiling softly as it caught and held his own.

"Ron," she spoke softly, "you don't have to—"

Ron found himself answering with an apologetic quirk of his lips, "No."

"Not yet?" Malfoy goaded.

"No," Ron answered, his hands tightening on Hermione's body, willing her to feel the truth behind his words. "Not yet."

Her mouth parted slightly in a gasp.

"Would you like to?" Draco prompted.

Hermione broke from Ron's gaze to cast a disgusted look at Draco.

It was all _his_ fault, she thought—the dashing of her dreams. Finally, Ron was saying the words that seeped into her love-starved heart, but they were all lies . . . a manipulation at the hands of a sad, inbred, hateful little _ferret_. She couldn't allow herself to be a party to this manipulation, no matter how hard her heart cried to be satisfied. By losing herself in this selfish fantasy, she could kill everything, every possible chance at a future they could have together. She had to remain strong; she had to protect him.

"Draco," she muttered. "You loathsome, little . . . ."

"Yes." Ron interjected, flushing slowly.

Ron's words cut straight through her heart, paining her. Her mind flashed forward to a day when he would mean these words. She wondered fervently if he had ever really wanted to kiss her. Was she really such an awful person for hesitating, for pretending, if only for a moment, that they were back in the Gryffindor Common Room after the Yule Ball and that, instead of fighting he had simply seized her face with his hands and kissed her? Kissed her until her hair streamed over her shoulders, enveloping their faces as she clung to him with desperate hands; kissing him back as if her heart would fail if they were to ever stop. Taking a deep breath, she pushed aside these hopes and dreams, fighting to salvage the future and Ron's vulnerable pride.

In the interim, Malfoy leaned forward and continued.

"Then do so," he commanded matter-of-factly. "Kiss her," he urged, laughing softly to himself.

Ron's hands tightened on her frame, pulling her closer with a shy sort of determination. He focused his gaze on her mouth, watching the corners twitch with indecision and concern. He knew that it wasn't the best time; it was never part of the plan to share this special moment with the ferret standing less than six feet away. He had pictured something far more intimate . . . catching her by surprise as she laughed softly at one of his jokes, for example. She had always exuded a 'come kiss me' vibe whenever she had wantonly let go and let herself enjoy his company or perspective. They were moments when he felt like she really understood him, and that maybe her rule-conscious demeanor was simply a shield that protected her from getting hurt . . . by him.

Maybe she held herself so rigidly because she feared he would recoil from her softness as he had in the past? He thought back to the Buckbeak incident, cringing as he recalled patting her on the head when he had wanted to hug her back, absorbing her grief like his school robes did her tears. How often had he emphasized their _friend_ship over their _relation_ship? How often had he held her at a distance, so scared that if she got close enough she would see the inner longing of his heart and laugh at him for presuming that she could ever love him? Or that he could ever deserve even half of her affection?

It wasn't the best moment, but it was the right time. If he backed down now she would always believe that his feelings were a lie. And even with the supposed Gryffindor courage, would he ever again get to the point where he could, and would, express to her, so freely, exactly what he wanted and felt? He had to let her know it wasn't a lie . . . that neither his emotions nor his desires were the product of Draco's prompting. Sliding his hand through her hair to cup the back of her neck, his face a mask of determination, Ron concentrated on her mouth. Taking a deep breath, he watched them flex and draw across her teeth as they formed silent words.

Bracing her hand on his chest, squirming in his arms as she saw the raw determination settle over his features, she tried to catch Ron's gaze and plead logic against the power of the overwhelming influences that must be clouding his brain.

"Ron? . . . Ron, please—" She whispered, breathless.

But he was already turning his head, rushing forward to bump his lips against her own. With his eyes squeezed shut, refusing to meet her gaze lest it be filled with disgust and recrimination, he pressed his lips hard against hers desperately. He drew back almost immediately, hand dropping to his side as he finally opened his eyes and faced her reaction.

He scanned her face nervously, cursing himself for being so sloppy. He watched as she raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes looking both at and through him in shock and awe. He couldn't believe he'd finally done it. _Did she like it_, he wondered desperately as his mind raced. Was it awful? Should he apologize? Or should he banish Malfoy from the room and demand that she return the favor?

Hermione gazed at him, her eyes burning softly with the first prick of tears. It had been a clumsy kiss, but so sweet and heartfelt—much like Ron himself. She wanted to smile tremulously at him, but as she caught his gaze she could see the anxiety radiating from his face, and it nearly broke her heart.

He was horrified by what he'd done, and she'd enjoyed it. How could she be so insensitive? Of course, he was horrified! He'd never shown any signs of wanting her to kiss him before. His actions had been orchestrated by a petty _Malfoy_, and she had dared to reap the benefits. But, she hadn't really. She was too stunned to even try to kiss him back; she had merely received his kiss. Maybe he didn't know how much the kiss, or even the semblance of a real kiss meant to her. Maybe she could play it off, and shield his pride. Though they might never speak of it again, at least she had the bittersweet memory of his warm, firm mouth pressed so passionately against hers. It would have to be enough for her, because she loved him too much to give him up for good.

Softly breaking his embrace, Hermione turned to face Draco with a cold, aloof expression. "Happy _now_, ferret?" She asked quietly, her dignity surrounding her in an impenetrable shield.

Looking between her disdain and Ron's shame-faced guilt, Malfoy smiled. "I'd be happier still if I had Creevey's camera! But, I suppose I'll have to be content without physical proof."

Backing away with a confident step, Draco tilted his head to the side while a wicked expression crossed his face. "Who knows? Maybe I can conjure something up!" Tapping the tip of his wand against his temple, he suggested, "A pensieve, perhaps?"

Laughing heartily, Draco relished Ron and Hermione's distraught expressions. He could tell that Hermione knew exactly what he meant, and that her certainty drove the knife of fear more deeply into Weasley's heart. Draco veritably skipped across the room to the hospital wing doors, stopping only to add, "We'll have to do this again, sometime!"

His cackling subsided as he neared the exit, leaving Ron and Hermione in an oppressive silence.

Slowly pulling her wand from her sleeve, Hermione trained the point of the wand on Malfoy's back. Turning to catch Ron's fear-filled eyes, she whispered reassuringly, "Don't worry, Ron. I'll protect you."

With that, she leapt from the bed, calling Malfoy's name shrilly. As his hand caught the doorknob, he turned to look back at her. Eyes widening in surprise, he had no time to react before the spell slipped past her lips.

"Obliviate," she said forcefully.


	7. Chapter 7 The Healing

**Chapter 7: The Healing**

The force of her spell sent Malfoy stumbling back against the sickroom doors even as it cast a blue aura around his head. The aura lingered for a second, painting his pale hair an obnoxious shade of Cornish pixie blue, before finally dissipating into his skull. She counted backwards from fifteen to one, erasing the past fifteen minutes from his memory with a mild grimace. Lowering her wand, she watched him shake his head slightly before raising a stilling hand to his forehead.

Hermione jumped as the door to Madam Pomfrey's office was flung open at the opposite end of the room, ejecting that lady from its confines with a loud rustle of skirts. With sly movements, Hermione silently backed towards Ron's partition before Malfoy or Madam Pomfrey could mark her presence.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy . . . can I help you?" Madam Pomfrey called to him briskly.

Still slightly befuddled, Malfoy rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyelids before answering.

"No, Madam Pomfrey." He replied, disrupting his hair with absent fingers. Blinking slowly, he gingerly felt his lower back before casting an accusing glare at the knob which protruded from the door behind him—the culprit of his recent pain. Turning his confused gaze back upon Madame Pomfrey, he continued. "I seem to have forgotten what I came for."

Coming forward, she placed the back of her hand against Draco's forehead and pursed her lips. "You seem a bit clammy. Are you experiencing any nausea or a headache perhaps?"

He shook his head slowly, gathering his bearings just as quickly.

"I thought . . . I came in . . . but then you . . . no, no headache, Madam Pomfrey. I'm just a little confused." His gaze ran down the center of the room, focusing on her office at the opposite end. "I think you just startled me, coming through the door so suddenly like you did."

Madam Pomfrey raised an eyebrow at his admission, tilting her head to the side as she attempted to determine whether Draco was honestly confused or simply faking an illness in order to hassle her patient again. It wouldn't be the first time a student had attempted to carry on a rivalry in her sickroom, but his pale eyes and paler skin revealed nothing of his true condition, and she sighed impatiently.

She had often wondered whether Draco was what Muggle doctors deemed anemic. The pale-haired boy, while performing fairly well as the Slytherin quidditch team seeker, often seemed weak and frail by comparison to his contemporaries with his paler-than-pale complexion. Several diagnoses flitted through her mind as she watched Draco gain his bearings. As his face settled into the trademark Malfoy sneer, however, Madam Pomfrey snorted softly, barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes.

_Perhaps the rumors of Malfoy's partial Veela heritage are true_, she considered absently.

She watched as Malfoy first smoothed his robes and then his hair with stiff, precise movements. He glared openly at Ron's partition, obviously wondering about what was going on behind the closed sheets. He impatiently swatted against the folds of his robes with his wand, straining to make out what the Gryffindors were trying to hide by whispering.

_It would certainly explain his vicious temper tantrums_, she concluded snidely.

At Madam Pomfrey's approach, Hermione took the opportunity to tuck her wand into the sleeve of her robes before backing slowly towards Ron's bed. Turning on her heel, she slipped between the hanging sheets of Ron's partition with a sigh. Raising her eyes, she met Ron's steady gaze, flushing only slightly as she noted his furrowed brow and forlorn expression.

Stepping closer to his bedside, she watched as his fingers played gingerly with the bed linens and nervously cleared her throat. Looking at him askance before dropping her gaze once again to his nervous fingers, she found herself awkwardly patting his hand.

Softly, she replied, "It's done, Ron. You don't have to worry . . . Malfoy won't say anything, I promise. And I . . . it will be our secret, yeah?"

Ron struggled to find his voice as he looked down upon Hermione's bowed head. It was as if she were incapable of meeting his eyes as she spoke. He felt his hand fist convulsively beneath her own, causing her hand to withdraw.

His chin jutted out as he turned his face away from her, warding off a wobbling chin by gnashing his teeth together. Staring at the foot of the bed until his teary eyes also obeyed, Ron gruffly responded.

"Yeah, it'll be _our_ secret." He muttered.

His rejoinder was cold and bitter, mimicking his rigid posture as he stiffened against his pillow.

"Ron," Hermione pleaded, her voice cracking as she raised her gaze to his face. "Please, look at me."

His brows dove farther, creating a harsh 'v' between his glassy blue eyes. Hermione found her gaze shifting between them, urging him to understand the words she couldn't say aloud. She read so many things in their crystalline depths: hurt, betrayal, and loss. She hugged herself with her arms, feeling small and lost as he stared at her in silent accusation.

"I know it was just Malfoy, Ron." Hermione added quickly. "I know that you wouldn't ever really . . . that you wouldn't normally want to . . . _Oh, God_."

Inhaling sharply, Hermione's hand flailed like a disoriented bird, fluttering momentarily in the air before finally settling on her forehead. Ducking her head, her fingers digging fiercely into her temples in agitation, Hermione closed her eyes briefly and collected her thoughts. Ron found himself begrudgingly leaning forward to hear the rest of her hoarsely voiced answer.

"Ron, I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry he made you do . . . THAT. But you can trust me, Ron." Hermione raised beseeching eyes to his, her hands instinctively reaching to clasp his fist for emphasis. "We can go on as before, never better. You know that I won't say anything."

Noting his expression, she dropped her hands to the side, gripping the folds of her robes as if the tenuous hold was the only thing keeping her heart in one painfully straining piece.

He measured her briefly with his eyes, feeling unaccountably stung by her words. He had expected them, played them out in his mind a hundred times, and yet somehow they still burned like a fresh wound. He felt hollow and brittle as he looked at her, as if his body was just a shell and his heart was merely a false cardboard cut-out. But it still managed to convulse painfully as her warm eyes flitted to his mouth shortly before falling away once again. He joined her in watching her hands dance nervously in the folds of her robes for a few moments while he searched for his voice.

"No, you _wouldn't_ tell anyone, would you, Hermione?" He queried softly, one hand absently gripping the other in his lap.

_This was the truth_, his mind urged. She'd rather no one else ever knew about his misstep. _Was it so awful_, he wondered briefly as he bowed his head, _to be tainted by Weasley lips?_

Unaware of his private musings, she rushed to reiterate. "No, of course I wouldn't, Ron! I'm a veritable secret-keeper even without the formality of a spell."

Seating herself recklessly on the side of his bed, she reached out to softly touch his upper arm before continuing. "I would never intentionally embarrass you or make you feel bad. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know." He replied, dropping his gaze to the hands in his lap.

They were knuckle-white from gripping one another, and he concentrated on loosening his death-grip. He had to let go, of himself and her. He had to face the facts and accept them because she deserved that much. He would train himself to hide these external signs of his desire, his frustrated dreams. He refused to burden her with his pathetic pining.

His answer, delivered in a monotone, nearly broke her heart. Hermione bit the inside of her lower lip to stop it from quivering and tried to think of a way to reassure him.

Her instincts urged her to fling herself bodily at him, absorbing his hurt and embarrassment with a heartfelt hug. She was stopped by the silent admission she made to herself that such a public display of affection was more likely to assuage her own need to feel close to him, connected—even bonded—than his need to be comforted by his know-it-all best friend. Her embrace would probably cause him to recoil even further from her and she couldn't face any more of his blatant rejection. Silently turning the matter over in her mind, she tucked the bushy fall of her hair behind her ears and shifted on the bed beside him.

Turning her head, she heard Madame Pomfrey and Malfoy murmuring together near the sickroom doors. Hermione absently fingered the wand that rested against her forearm before turning back to look at her ginger-haired best friend. Leaning forward with shining eyes, she suddenly gripped his wrist and whispered breathlessly: "I could take it back!"

Ron looked at her then, his confounded blue gaze clashing with the vibrant urgency of her honey-brown one. Shaking his head softly to convey his confusion, he watched as Hermione glanced over her shoulder, gauging their distance from Madame Pomfrey, before she faced him once again to voice her solution.

"I could take it back, Ron." She repeated, her fingers lightly tracing the fall of his hair across his forehead until her eyes locked with his again. "I could Obliviate the memory, Ron. You'd never know what Malfoy made you do. I could make it right, if you let me."

Ron expelled his breath in a rush, his lungs feeling crushed from within as her suggestion sunk in. She wanted to do more than just ignore what had happened; she wanted to erase the moment, as if it had NEVER existed!

"No, Hermione." He muttered. _Bloody enchantments_, he seethed.

_I don't want to forget_, he almost added. His thoughts rushed forward in a tangle. That kiss could be the last close moment they ever shared, and Ron couldn't imagine giving that up, even if it was what she wanted. In fact, if that were the case, he needed the memory for the future. He would use it as an emotional salve, a tincture that would seal up the cracks in his heart when it felt like bursting from unspoken feelings. It would be his comfort as she moved on, turning her back on him in order to explore other romantic options.

_Bloody Bulgarian git_, he thought vehemently.

But a glimpse of her hopeful expression floored him. She wanted so much to preserve their friendship, to keep things from changing between them. He refused to alter his memory, but what could he offer in return to prove that he wanted to hold onto their friendship as well?

"What about you?" He questioned gruffly. "Do you expect me to—to . . . ."

"What?" She asked, watching as he absently performed a swish and flick with his wand-less hand. Finally cottoning on, she breathed, "Oh! No, Ron . . . ."

She felt the heat slowly suffusing her face and ducked her head. How could she tell him that she wouldn't trade the memory of their kiss for the whole wizarding world without completely exposing herself? Her mind taunted her silently: _Danger, Ron Weasley! Perverted best friend at 5 o'clock! Watch out for Hermione Granger, the notorious best mate molester and all-around wanton witch._

"That's alright." She amended with a tight smile, "I really don't mind, Ron. I know that you were just acting under the influence of the spell."

She watched as he flushed suddenly, the color creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. Dropping her gaze, Hermione stared at the rumpled sheets that bunched around Ron's hips as if they were the most fascinating thing she had ever seen.

Picking imaginary lint from her knee, she finished softly, "I just thought that maybe you, you know, would rather I—"

Ron rolled his eyes and shook his head, petulantly crossing his arms over his chest at the thought.

"I said NO, Hermione." He reiterated forcefully.

He watched her jump slightly at his raised voice from the corner of his eye. He couldn't tell what startled her more: his actual response or the vehemence with which he expressed it.

_How could she even think that_, he wondered angrily.

_Because she wants to forget._

The thought came unbidden but stuck in the forefront of his mind. She didn't want to acknowledge his kiss as anything more than a clumsy misstep. It was just another example of stupid Ron Weasley mucking things up between them again. She didn't even trust him to obliviate her as well.

_She must really think I'm hopeless with a wand_, Ron thought vehemently, his lip curling with the thought.

He couldn't look at her, couldn't face her subsequent rejection or the careful way in which she tried to let him down gently. He rubbed the end of his long nose roughly, willing himself not to cry.

"Alright then, Mr. Malfoy." Madam Pomfrey said, drawing their exchange to a close as she heard signs of a quiet argument raging from behind Ron's partition. Firming her lips into a hard line, she drew a needle and vial from her deep apron pocket, and gestured simply with a tilt of her head for Draco to leave if he had no official complaint.

"As I have actual patients to see to, I'll have to ask that you head back to the dungeons now, Mr. Malfoy." She smirked slightly before continuing. "I trust that you're more than capable of seeing yourself out without the accompaniment of your usual entourage."

Sniffing with disdain at her dismissal, Draco turned on his heel and dramatically exited from the infirmary, flinging both of the heavy oak double-doors open with a violent motion. She paused for a moment as she listened to him stalking away, his feet stomping harshly upon the unforgiving limestone floor.

_He'll be back with hairline fractures in his feet, no doubt_, she thought to herself. Turning towards bed number two, she felt a mischievous smile curling her lips. _Sounds like a job for my handy, dandy Skele-Gro!_

Slipping through Ron's partition, she caught Hermione's hesitant comment to Ron.

"Okay, Ron. Of course. I didn't mean to offend you."

Hermione looked up as she heard Madam Pomfrey enter and quickly scooted off of the bed. Moving to the side, she glanced from the hypodermic needle in Madam Pomfrey's hand to the stunned expression on Ron's face as he noted it as well. Gathering the remnants of her Gryffindor courage, Hermione addressed him with a final plea.

"If you want," she said, standing shyly by the bed, her fingers fiddling with his bed sheets. "I could stay . . . and hold your hand."

Ron's gaze flew to her face, his hands fisting in his lap.

"Ms. Granger," Madam Pomfrey chided, "I told you before that this was a very private procedure."

Hermione felt her eyebrows hitch painfully high on her forehead as she gaped openly at the older woman. "Oh, of course . . . the posterior! I-I guess I thought you had already done that."

Ron watched the color in her face rise sharply and wondered when he had ever seen Hermione look so out of sorts. One mention of the male "posterior" and she was a goner. He began to consider the possibility that Krum had acted only as Hermione's escort to the Yule Ball rather than her date. Surely he would have noticed the flushed undertones to her skin if Krum had kissed her goodnight before she entered the Common Room? But her cheeks had only flushed after he had accused her, once again, of fraternizing with the enemy.

He frowned at the memory. Maybe her embarrassment wasn't centered around boys in general; maybe it was just his posterior, his touch, his kiss that made her run. But she wasn't running now. No, she had simply reverted back into the mother hen who urged him to close his mouth when he ate and to start his homework early. She didn't blush because she saw him as a man; she blushed because she was embarrassed by her ickle Ronniekins.

Madame Pomfrey watched as Ron's expression grew foreboding, his temper gathering like storm clouds between his furrowed brows. Clucking her tongue softly, she guided Hermione towards the door.

"You should return to class Ms. Granger." Madam Pomfrey stated firmly. "Dinner will be in a few hours, and I'm sure you'd like to present a progress report on Mr. Weasley's condition to your friends before then."

"Yes, Madam Pomfrey." Hermione answered, bowing her head slightly as she began to move away. Glancing back at Ron, she watched as he scooted down into the bed, rolling over onto his side, presenting his back to her as he prepared for the shot. Her steps faltered as she watched his knees curl up and his back bow, shifting into a modified fetal position. Her heart ached as she watched him; he seemed so alone.

"Madam Pomfrey?" She queried. "May we visit him then? After dinner, I mean?"

Madam Pomfrey shook her head slowly. "There'd be no point, Ms. Granger, as he won't be conscious after taking his sleeping draught. Never fear, though. I'm sure he'll be right as rain tomorrow morning. You'll probably see him at breakfast!"

Hermione nodded her head in acquiescence, but determined to borrow Harry's invisibility cloak in order to see Ron before the morning. He shouldn't be left alone, even if he were unconscious. After all, how many hours had he and Harry spent in the infirmary when she was petrified? She moved forward with a renewed bounce in her step, and Madam Pomfrey returned to her patient.

Ron shifted onto his side and gazed at the shadows that the waning light cast upon his white partition. He heard Madam Pomfrey approaching with the tell-tale rustle of her skirt. Sighing dejectedly, he tried not to think about the day.

He felt her presence at his back, saw her shadow spread across the partition, and sighed.

"Are you ready to begin the healing, Mr. Weasley?" She asked, dipping the needle into the vial and loading the cartridge with a deft pull of her thumb.

"Merlin, _yes_." He replied with feeling.

As she undid the tapes of his hospital gown, his breath hitched. He felt her reposition his sheets around his hips for modesty's sake moments before she began swabbing the fleshy part of his hip with an alcohol pad. He only felt the pressure of her fingers on his skin as the needle went in, and he closed his eyes briefly.

The medicine spread in cool tendrils throughout his flank like a rapidly growing spider web. Ron grimaced at the thought, attempting to banish the thought as his lips pressed themselves into a firm line.

It was all over in a moment, and she wiped the area again with a cool, antiseptic swab before backing away from the bed. Rolling over onto his back, Ron didn't bother with retying his gown and instead pulled the meager sheets up to his armpits. Tucking them around his body, he stared at the ceiling, watching the light fade as the sun moved closer to setting in the window behind him.

"Your sleeping draught, Mr. Weasley." Madam Pomfrey prompted, handing him a weighty glass.

Ron sat up shakily before downing the draught in a long, slow swallow. Handing the glass back to Madam Pomfrey, he slumped back against the bed before shutting his eyes. Silently, he urged himself to fall asleep more quickly, even as his racing thoughts prevented him from doing so. Instead, he found himself falling in and out of light dozes, awakening in time to watch the shadows move across the sentry, also known as his partition, located at the foot of his bed as the sun finally set in the sky. He thought about the dinner he had missed, the friend he had kissed, and the morning after that had yet to come.

Hermione trudged down the stairs to the Great Hall with leaden feet, her footsteps echoing eerily into the hall. Stopping before the door, she paused to take a slow breath before entering the grand room.

Not even the enchanted ceiling, which revealed a gently ebbing sunset the exact shade of Ron's hair, could cheer her. Looking down the long table, her breath hitched as she spotted a similar shade of ginger, only to sigh softly a second later as she recognized Ginny's patented hair-flip which forced her chunky plait over her shoulder, leaving it to dangle between her shoulder blades. Noting the vacant seat beside her, Hermione rushed forward to claim it before Colin Creevey, who was right behind her, could.

Easing into the seat, Hermione took her plate in hand and reached for the nearest bowl of peas. Glancing out of the corners of her eyes at Ginny, she cleared her throat and, upon gaining Ginny's attention, began to speak.

"Hello, Ginny." She replied calmly as she began layering sausage, mash, and peas upon her plate.

Ginny turned eagerly with an excited grin. Reaching into her bag, she plunked an eerily familiar cup down in front of Hermione's flatware.

"Well, there you are, Hermione: one ticket to the Detention Express for our illustrious bouncing ferret!" Wriggling in her seat, Ginny leaned close to whisper, "What punishment do you think Dumbledore will devise? Personally, I'm hoping he orders Malfoy to clean the dungeon floors with a toothbrush until they shine. Or that he has to wash Snape's hair . . . you know—whichever one is most filthy!"

"Ginny!" Hermione gasped, scandalized.

Unbidden thoughts of shampoo-boy Draco popped into her mind along with the image of their potions master, his head encased in Lockhart-pink bubbles as his mouth curled into a cross between a smirk and a leer, and she shivered unconsciously. Turning her attention to the offending cup, the one that still held traces of Veritaserum even as she turned it in her hands, Hermione worried her lower lip between anxious teeth. She had forgotten about their proof and wondered whether or not it would ever be brought to Dumbledore's attention in light of the secret she and Ron now shared.

To turn in the ferret, Hermione would also have to describe everything that the combined magicks had made Ron do. She would have to break her promise, first to Ron, by actually sharing the story, and next to herself, by having to admit, once again, that the kiss was tainted and never should have been.

Turning the cup in her hands, Hermione murmured. "That will have to be up to Ron, Ginny. He's been through a lot today and I don't want to make it worse."

"Oh, no!" Ginny exclaimed, grasping Hermione's upper arm with both hands. "The Slytherins . . . they didn't get to Ron first, did they? I mean, carried out their prank before you could get Ron to the hospital wing?"

"No . . . no, Ginny. Of course not!" Hermione felt her cheeks burning as she thought of the kiss. She could still feel his clumsy lips there if she concentrated hard enough . . . .

Suddenly, Hermione wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, rejecting the phantom kiss. Looking at Ginny's confused expression, Hermione weakly explained that she couldn't find her napkin. She dropped her face into her hands, completely mortified as Ginny surreptitiously grasped the edge of the napkin that lay in her lap, exposing her as either a liar or the daftest bint in Hogwarts' history. Without a word, Ginny raised it to the tabletop beside Hermione's hand and offered it to the blushing girl. Accepting the offering, Hermione raised it to her mouth and dabbed at imaginary crumbs before finally confessing.

"Actually, they did confront us outside the medical ward, Ginny." She briefly explained the scuffle, omitting certain realizations about her feelings for Ron. "Luckily, Madam Pomfrey arrived in time to break up the fray and we were able to get Ron to the ward in time. Harry and I stayed as long as we could, but Malfoy kept interrupting."

Glancing around, Hermione was surprised to realize that Harry was nowhere to be found in the Great Hall.

"Ginny, have you seen Harry this evening? He never came back into the sickroom after we confronted Malfoy . . . Oh, no!" Nearly leaping from her seat, Hermione cast anxious eyes around the room before the staying influence of Ginny's hand had its full effect on her.

"Hermione," Ginny began, urging the other girl to take her seat, "Harry had another meeting for the second task with Professor Dumbledore. All of the competitors did, in fact. I think they may have moved the competition date up because all four went to bed early tonight. We'll have to wait until the morning to go with Harry to the hospital wing."

Grimacing, Hermione retorted, "Yes, we will. Madam Pomfrey gave Ron a sleeping draught and told me he couldn't receive visitors until tomorrow morning. Of course, she also said that a visit may be unnecessary as he should be well enough to attend breakfast in the morning."

Looking at her musing friend, Ginny replied loftily, "Well then, I suppose we shall see Ron at breakfast. There's no point in bothering him if he's had a sleeping draught. After all, Ron sleeps like the dead even without potions! I bet he'll be really hungry though—he'll have skipped two and a half meals by then!"

Hermione turned these words over in her mind and saw the simple logic in them. She was over-reacting because of her crush. Frustrated, she realized she could no longer separate her feelings into those of friendship and those of love. Nodding her agreement to Ginny, Hermione finished her dinner in silence as she continued to reflect on her ginger-haired best friend. Would they ever really fall in love?

Ron awoke early enough to catch the sunrise. Watching the sun emerge from its nighttime wrappings, he listened to his stomach growl and fidgeted on the bed. He knew that she always awoke with the sun and made her way to the library in order to return the books she had finished reading before finally entering the Great Hall for breakfast. He glanced at the chair beside his bed and noted his clothes from the previous day folded in a neat stack upon it. Sometime in the night Madam Pomfrey or one of the House Elves must have cast a cleaning charm over them because they looked spotless and neatly pressed. Ron concluded that it must have been Madam Pomfrey as he noticed the note which rested upon his shoes, reading: _"Ron Weasley—released for class."_

If Ron were to dress himself and leave for the Great Hall at that moment, he would have Hermione all to himself for at least a few moments. But would that be too telling? Would she attribute his early morning start to the hunger plaguing his disgruntled stomach or his other masculine appetite? Would she insist on Obliviating the memory again or would they simply pretend that nothing had ever happened?

Allowing his stomach to drive him forward, Ron rose gingerly from bed and cast a simple cleansing charm upon himself. Next, he slipped into his uniform, pausing only as he took up his peaked hat in an awkward grip.

He remembered how she had run her fingers over it the day before, twisting the peak between her tiny fingers. Looking at the hand which was currently clasped around his hat in a loose fist, he remembered how she had held his hands, gripped his upper arm, and even fallen across his lap. He pushed this latter thought from his mind and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other as he tried to think of less exciting things.

Pulling her curls through his fingers, wanting to thread his fingers through them, cupping her scalp . . . .

_LESS exciting things_, he urged himself.

Holding her close to his side on the bed, his hand resting on the softness of her lower belly . . . .

_Bloody hell, Weasley!_

He groaned aloud, rubbing his hand across his eyes.

Kissing Hermione. No, REALLY kissing Hermione . . . .

Ron fell back on the bed with a defeated grunt, and covered his burning face with his hat. How was he ever going to face her again and NOT want to touch her? But he was used to controlling these urges; if the impulse arose, he would simply think about quidditch, or Snape kissing McGonagall. No, Snape REALLY kissing McGonagall (that always seemed to do the trick).

Pushing himself up from his bed, Ron began walking out of the medical ward and towards the Great Hall, a mixture of eager anticipation and dreadful anxiety swirling in his grumbling stomach,

Hermione checked her watch again, wondering whether or not it was too soon to visit Ron in the medical wing. He was probably still asleep, curled up in bed. Hermione could just picture his face, flushed with sleep, and his deep, penetrating blue eyes blinking open to look at her. He would smile softly and invite her to curl up with him, urging her to rest her head beneath his chin with a gentle hand on the back of her neck as he fitted his body to hers . . . .

Shaking her head briskly, Hermione forced this fantasy to the back of her mind. She was being ridiculous! Of course Ron would probably be grumpy in the morning. Or drool-encrusted with a pillow stuck to his face. Or recklessly splayed across the bed with the knotted bed linens revealing more than just his bare legs this time, leaving nothing to the imagination . . . .

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek in the attempt to turn her mind away from these thoughts. Why did her mind insist on tormenting her? As often as she reminded herself of Ron's horrified expression, she couldn't forget the heart-to-heart they had had as well. Did he really think she was beautiful, or was that just the spell? She couldn't let herself trust in anything said yesterday as it may be the effect of the potion and charm interaction. She would wait and see how he acted this morning; if any of his previous confessions were true, surely he would reveal them again? Until that time, she would leave him alone and allow him to heal.

Ron paused in the doorway of the great hall, shuffling from one foot to the other as he stared at the lone figure in the Great Hall.

Hermione had pinned her hair up in a haphazard bun today, and Ron watched as the breeze from the open windows stirred the curls at the nape of her neck. Swallowing hard, he entered the room with a quiet, steady step and seated himself across from her at the Gryffindor table.

"G'morning, Hermione." He murmured softly. When she raised her surprised eyes to his face he quirked a small smile at her. He watched her sigh in relief and offered her own tiny smile in return.

"Feeling better?" She inquired inadequately. Mentally berating herself, she tried to present a calm, collected front to him.

Noting her calm expression and mild greeting, Ron felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. Apparently they would pretend that nothing had happened regardless of whomsoever was or was not around. Nodding his head briefly in acknowledgement, he turned his attention to gathering breakfast from the trays that lay between them. Eating silently, he spoke merely in a monosyllabic drone throughout breakfast, even when the rest of the houses finally joined them. As Harry sat down beside him, jibing good-naturedly about how good it was to see his best friend again, he watched Hermione turn to chat with Seamus, Neville, and Dean Thomas and frowned.

That was when it had started, the cool distance between them. Sure, he had iced her out in third year over the Firebolt incident, but he had been angry because he cared. He had felt betrayed and had reacted in kind. But this coolness, Hermione's coolness, was like talking to a stranger; only examining the surface of issues rather than getting to the heart of the matter. It was fake and it was distancing. He knew then that she would never forget the kiss, and that, in addition, she would never forgive him for it as well.

Back at the Burrow, with his head propped against the wall, Ron watched the dawn spread across his Chudley Cannons posters with a broken sigh.

The rest of the year she had been just as detached. In fact, the detachment had grown along with her obsession to conquer Rita Skeeter. By the end of the year—after Cedric's death and Voldemort's return—when they all gathered to bid farewell to the visiting Beauxbaton and Durmstrang students, no one had even noticed the reduced frequency of their quarrels. But it stung like a freshly salted wound when Hermione bid farewell to Viktor Krum. He had attempted to use an Unforgivable Curse on Harry during the Third Challenge—albeit, while under the control of an Unforgivable himself—and Hermione had forgiven him. They were still pen pals in fact, whatever that means.

He had been stunned. She wouldn't forgive her friend of four years for acting on a crush, but she could forgive a dark wizard for attempting to crush Harry? It was disgusting. But he couldn't allow these jealousies to color his actions. Regardless of Viktor's actions they HAD been manipulated. And Ron knew something about being manipulated. And so he did the only thing he could think of to offer an olive branch to the great Bulgarian git.

He asked for his autograph.


	8. Chapter 8 Music From Another Room

**Chapter 8: Music from Another Room**

Restless, Ron flung off his sheets and set his feet on the floor with a soft thud. Gazing over at Harry's sleeping form, Ron watched for any signs of wakefulness in his friend. After determining that he hadn't disturbed the-boy-who-rarely-sleeps-through-the-night, Ron turned to gauge the weather from his window.

The light was soft and the dusky blue sky seemed bare and cloud-free; it was perfect weather for an early morning flight, if a mite chilly. Focused on clearing his head with a run through the brisk morning air, Ron decided to work out his restless energy on his broomstick.

Reaching under his white t-shirt to scratch his side and back, Ron rose smoothly from his creaking mattress, tightened the drawstring on his pajama bottoms and padded across the room to his closet. Opening the closet door, he found one of his father's old Muggle castaways—a large, well-worn Oxford shirt—and slipped it on over his t-shirt like a lightweight jacket to ward off the early morning chill. Simultaneously, he stepped into his trainers and unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, folding them back over his wrists, before exiting his bedroom as quietly as possible.

Yawning slightly, Ron paused on the landing, listening to the house settle, before he started creeping down the stairs. It was so early that even his mum was still abed, and the stillness of the air around him, undisturbed by dueling siblings or other signs of life, was disturbing. Finger-combing his hair into some semblance of order, he reached the bottom landing and moved down the hall towards the broom closet at the end, passing Ginny's room in the process.

_Boom, boom, boom, ba-boom._

Her door pulsed with life. Halting, Ron turned an anxious expression towards his sister's vibrating door. He hadn't spent the past fourteen years of his life in the same household as Fred and George, experiencing the aftermath of their various experiments, without developing a keen sense of trepidation over such ominous signs. Stepping closer, he hesitantly brushed his fingers across the rough-hewn surface of Ginny's door, feeling the pulsing vibrations tingle through his fingertips and knuckles. Drawing his hand back, Ron glanced down to see the traces of a bright pink towel peeking up at him from the floor. Ginny had obviously shoved her towel under the door in an attempt to muffle the sounds emitting from her room, but Ron was at too much of a loss to know why she had gone to such great lengths to block the sound.

Curiosity driving him forward, Ron found his hand gripping her doorknob, testing it with a twist of his wrist. Hearing the soft click of the latch release as the doorknob turned fully in his hand, Ron pressed forward, opening the door slowly as he peered into Ginny's room with wary eyes.

Widening in response, his eyes nearly bulged out of his skull as he caught her dancing, her loose-limbed and provocative movements leaving him shocked and bemused at the same time. Choking back a wild laugh, Ron called her name with a hoarse voice, struggling to be heard over the loud, rhythmic bass.

Ginny raised her arms above her head, arching and elongating her spine with graceful movements as music began to spew from the speakers of Hermione's donated CD player. She closed her eyes, feeling the bass pulse through her body in driving waves, and licked her lips in anticipation. Letting her arms fall to the side to lightly slap against her thighs, she poised her body—throwing her shoulders back and tightening the muscles of her arms, stomach, and legs—and waited for the opening chords of the song to play.

Her body picked up the rhythm easily, accentuating the beat with her hips as they swayed and rolled in abandonment. Ginny felt her arms raise of their own accord, flapping ridiculously as she began to hop from one foot to the other in tune with the music. She punched at the air in front of her, punctuating the sound of panting in the song as the bass dropped out for a moment and the male vocalist launched into the chorus.

Holding a hairbrush to her lips, she mouthed the words along with the stereo and lowered her head, rolling her neck in such a way that her long, red ponytail swung over her head in a wild arc. Spinning around to face her bedroom door, Ginny pointed dramatically with her free hand and opened her eyes to emphatically serenade the closed door, only to find herself screaming as she perceived someone standing in the open doorway.

Thrusting the hairbrush behind her back, Ginny haphazardly slapped at the stereo, stopping the song after a few swipes, and turned to face her older brother with wide eyes and red cheeks.

Ron watched Ginny's nervous movements with delighted eyes, noting the way she smoothed her hair with one hand while she guiltily hid her brush-turned-microphone behind her back. Feeling his own mouth twitch as he watched her lips open and close several times, trying and failing to find the words that would alleviate her mortification, Ron finally gave into the urge to smile and soon found himself doubled over with laughter in Ginny's doorway.

"Oh, shut up, you nosy prat." Ginny grumbled finally, seating herself on the edge of her bed with a heavy sigh. "You're worse than the twins."

Wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes, Ron fought to collect himself. Moving into her room, he collapsed onto the bed behind her in an oafish heap. Wheezing with dying laughter, Ron rolled over onto his side and pulled Ginny back, tickling her sides mercilessly.

"Oh, _really_?" He growled playfully, nearly sputtering as she thrashed against him. "The twins would've run and got Harry!"

"RON!" She squealed, squirming in his grasp until she was able to break free and slug him in the stomach. Watching him curl his lanky body around his injured abdomen, Ginny drew her fist back and slugged him on the shoulder for good measure.

"Ugh!" She growled angrily. "I hate having older brothers. You're all so bloody ridiculous."

"Ouch, Gin!" Ron returned, rubbing the injured flesh under his shirt. "I think you actually knocked the wind right out of me."

"That's hardly an accomplishment." She muttered, crossing her arms across her chest angrily.

Noting his sister's unforgiving posture, Ron sat up on the bed and moved to sit beside her. Ginny crossed her legs in the opposite direction and turned her face away from him in a huff. Sighing, Ron bowed his head and murmured an apology.

"I'm sorry, Ginny. I wasn't trying to spy on you—Really, I wasn't! But when I heard your door THROBBING, I felt it was my duty to make sure you were alright."

Ginny snorted in disbelief, but her spine lost its stiff, broom handle-like quality, and when he reached out she allowed him to rub her back. Turning to slug him playfully on the shoulder, Ginny offered Ron a crooked smile, forgiving him on the spot.

"I guess I DID have my music turned up rather loud." Ginny amended, drawing her knees up to her chest.

"Yeah." He replied, drawing the word out in an exaggerated monotone, causing her to laugh.

"Oh, shut it." Ginny said, bumping his shoulder with her own. "I've listened to my music every morning this summer, and you're the first person to complain."

"Ah, yes." Ron returned. "The towel trick did look a bit rehearsed."

"Of course." She agreed, nodding in acknowledgement.

"So, what were you listening to?" Ron asked, his curiosity piqued by the Muggle CD player on her nightstand.

"Oh, just some homework for Muggle Studies." Ginny answered lightly. "I've been examining Muggle and wizarding music, comparing and contrasting their genres and such."

Ron threw a disgusted expression her way. "That sounds terrible. Why would you start your assignment so early, and during summer hols? I swear, you're starting to sound just like . . . er, nevermind." Ron finished inadequately.

Frowning, Ginny turned away to mutter. "You can say her name, you know. It's not like it conjures her presence or something."

"I know." He whispered, face coloring in shame. Trying to change the subject, Ron pointed at the CD player. "So, what's that song? Some form of eclectronica, is it?"

Smiling briefly, Ginny gently corrected him. "It's called Electronica, actually. Although, I haven't been able to differentiate between _that_, Dance, Techno, Trance, and what they sometimes call House music. It's been really confusing. But, it's necessary research for the project I need to complete over the summer."

"Oh?" He questioned, surprised that Ginny had been assigned a summer project; it wasn't even her O.W.L. year yet.

"Yeah." Ginny answered with a sigh. "Professor Llewellyn is really planning to put us through our paces this year. At some point this summer, Dad's going to take me with him to the Ministry so that I can do some in-depth research on wizarding sanctions against duplicating copyrighted material."

Ron raised his eyebrows in confusion. Ginny sighed again, absently pulling her hair out of its ponytail.

Mussing her hair with nervous fingers, she explained. "I was assigned to research a Muggle controversy over the summer. We each drew topics from Professor Llewellyn's goblet, and we have to write a report and make a presentation on the subject to the rest of the class when we get back this year.

"I pulled Napster, which is a Muggle company that caused a controversy over copyright infringement in the Muggle world. That basically means that people were trading copies of songs and whatnot without paying the artists for them and it turned into a big legal mess. Now I have to look at our wizarding laws to see if we have similar copyright sanctions."

Ron goggled at her, causing Ginny to flop back on her bed in frustration.

"It's not as bad as it sounds." She muttered, rubbing her eyes in agitation. "It's just a lot of research."

"I'll say!" Ron agreed emphatically, plopping onto his back beside her. Turning his head towards her, he asked. "So, what has any of this got to do with you jerking about like a cat having a fit to music loud enough to wake Bulgaria?"

Pursing her lips, Ginny sat up swiftly with a growl and began pummeling her brother on the shoulder with both fists, showing him no mercy.

After another round of slugging and tickling, Ron found himself seated on the floor in front of Ginny's stereo, flipping through numerous CD cases and riffling through several rolls of parchment. Looking up at his sister, who was lying horizontally across the bed with her head dangling over the side, Ron cleared his throat to gain her attention. She laid there, hair streaming over the side of her white duvet in vivid shades of red and gold, flipping idly through the booklet of the CD she was playing, reading the lyrics and admiring the picture arrangements.

"Ginny?" Ron began, clearing his throat more forcefully as he heard his voice come out as little more than a croak.

"Hmm?" She murmured in distraction.

"These CDs," Ron said, holding up a handful for emphasis. "Did, uh, did _she_ send all of them?"

Rolling her eyes slightly, Ginny answered. "Yes, Ron. _Hermione_ sent all of them." Rolling onto her stomach to meet his gaze, she accused. "You know that we don't use CDs in the wizarding realm. Who else would have sent them?"

Blushing, Ron shrugged his shoulders and lowered his gaze to the cases in his hands. "I don't know. I thought that maybe one of the Creeveys might have loaned them to you."

Shaking her head, Ginny elaborated. "No. They're more concerned with Muggle photography than music."

"And these are all Hermione's CDs?" He asked doubtfully, noting that the music ranged in style from Rock and Pop to Dance and R&B. Looking up to catch Ginny's exasperated expression, he explained. "I guess I always pegged her as a classical music fan. You know, all piano and cello or whatnot."

Nodding begrudgingly, Ginny admitted. "Yeah, I had thought as much at first, too. I was really surprised to see how widely her tastes range."

Watching as Ron idly caressed the cases, his face taking on a longing cast, Ginny suddenly asked: "Would you like to see her favorites?"

Ron looked up at her quickly, first in surprise and then in suspicion. "How do you know which ones are her favorites?"

"She told me, of course." Ginny answered, pulling herself up to slide down to the floor beside him. "Unlike _some_ people I could mention, I actually read and answer her owl post."

Ignoring his sister's pointed comment, Ron shrugged his shoulders in defeat and handed her the cases in his hands. "Well, I'm sure she likes all of these CDs, otherwise she wouldn't have them." He reasoned.

"Yeah, that's true." Ginny admitted. "But she's been writing to me about one song in particular all summer."

"Really?" He asked, his curiosity piqued by the excitement in her voice.

"Yes, really." Ginny answered, her voice taking on an amused tone. Pulling a dark CD from a bright blue case, Ginny exchanged it with the one that was already in the CD player, and skipped forward several tracks. Finding the one she wanted, Ginny leaned back on her arms to listen to the song and watch her older brother in turn.

The soft strains of a sultry ballad poured from the speakers, drenching him with longing like a siren song. Ron felt the song open up like a blooming flower as layers of sound—first a haunting bass, next a melodic acoustic guitar and then a lilting violin—wafted towards him in throbbing waves. It made a subtle, though beautiful, introduction to the actual voice of the female vocalist.

After a brief bit of throaty vocalization, her soulful voice pitched low, serenading them with an apology. Ron began to feel his ears and cheeks begin to tingle in response as her voice turned husky. Leaning closer to the stereo, Ron stared intently at the speakers, trying to decipher the words sung over the gentle thrum of violin and acoustic guitar. The song developed a teasing, if a bit self-deprecating, lilt as she made a confession of love.

Ron felt his skin grow cold and his heart race as he listened to the vocalist paint a picture of one friend falling in love with the other, only to berate herself over the betrayal of their friendship. She sang, "I only promised to love you and not to fall / It turns out I'm the worst kind of friend after all." He felt seared by the raw emotion in her voice as it turned ragged. As the vocalist debated over whether or not to tell him how she felt, how to show him her love, Ron found himself panting in time with the song and listening eagerly for words of encouragement or some kind of advice for his own situation.

He winced involuntarily as the instrumental thrum, which previously had played a sultry, background accompaniment to the vocalist's passions, rose in a cacophony of sound, mimicking her internal struggle. Finally, the sound dropped away, leaving him feeling bereft. His ears strained, trying to pick out the last throes of the song. Gently, the vocalist's voice rose from the depths of vacuous sound to ravage his ears with a soul-rending finale. "It could ruin everything if I don't forget," her plaintive voice sang, a cappella. "Bitterness, internalized, turns love to regret / If I could I would find a way to love you less / But if I lose my heart I'll have nothing else left."

Sitting in front of the stereo as the silence morphed into the next song, Ron sat, ravaged and stunned, feeling raw and not a little exposed. He stared at the speakers with fascination, feeling as if the Muggle device had just raided his soul and sung his story on cue. He was still panting, feeling his chest slowly expand and retract with shallow breaths, when he finally saw his sister's hand break into view.

He watched, in a mild daze, as she pressed a button on the top of the machine, causing the music to stop. He could feel her gaze boring into his skull like nifflers searching for gold. Blinking slowly, Ron became aware of his burning eyes. Forcing himself to take a long, ragged breath he raised a hand to rub his irritated eyes. In that moment, it took more effort to turn and meet his sister's watchful gaze than it did to ask Krum for his autograph.

Ginny indelicately chewed on the side of her thumbnail as she watched Ron listen to what she had dubbed 'Hermione's song' in her head. The song had ended several moments before, but Ron seemed oblivious to that fact. He still sat, hands clenched around his knees, back straining and neck craning, frozen in front of the stereo. His breathing seemed ragged as shallow gasps of air passed back and forth between his dry, nearly chapped lips. He seemed completely out of sorts—not at all the state she had expected to find him in at the end of the song.

At first she had approached the opportunity to see Ron swallow his tongue in shock with mischievous glee, but after seeing him now—his body held rigid as he stared at the speakers, as if moving would break the spell cast over the room by the song—she was less eager. She had hoped to tease him about his burgeoning crush like he had teased her about Harry, or at least to pierce the density that seemed to enshroud all boys; they almost always needed things, especially feelings, spelled out for them. She had thought that this would create the perfect opportunity to hint at Hermione's feelings, and to force him to face his own. Perhaps she had underestimated Ron.

She had never seen such a stark expression on his face before. It was as if he had flushed and blanched at the same time; his face was pale, so light that even his freckles seemed faded, but the apples of his cheeks maintained a florid shade of mottled red. It was unsettling to see Ron, her brazen, bull-headed older brother, reduced to the fragility of spun sugar by a song. If she gazed at him from a certain angle, she could even detect the faint glint of tears.

Ginny bit into her nail with a sense of finality, and tucked the fall of her hair behind both ears. She waited for Ron to move, to make some effort to stop the music or some attempt to defend his strange behavior. When he did neither, merely continued to sit frozen and dazed, Ginny leaned forward on her knees, reaching out with her hand to turn the stereo off. As she settled back on her haunches, waiting for Ron to compose himself enough to meet her worried gaze, she was struck suddenly by a curious thought. _Did Ron just get deep?_

Ron swallowed briefly and offered a weak smile.

"Well." He replied, stopping to clear the hoarseness from his voice. "That was bloody depressing."

Ginny raised her eyebrows and nodded, taking a second to really look at Ron before responding. "A little. But it's still very pretty. I can see why Hermione likes it so much."

Ron paused for a moment, startled by Ginny's comment. He had become so wrapped up in how the song applied to his own situation that he had forgotten that it was Hermione's song. What did that mean? Did she feel the same way he did when she listened to the song, or did she think of him when she heard it? Maybe she just felt sorry for him, and listening to this song was her way of understanding what he was going through.

Scowling, Ron looked down at the floor and began playing with roll of parchment he found there. "I don't." He replied gruffly.

Ginny smiled to herself, recognizing a jealous huff when she saw it. "Isn't it obvious?" She asked, her voice sounding airy and confident. "She must put on this song, cuddle a pillow, and dream about Viktor—the unrequited love of her life!"

Ginny fought to control her laughter as she watched Ron's face flush furiously.

"Unrequited?" He scoffed, snorting in disbelief. "Krum's still all over her! Unrequited would be if she liked Harry or something."

"But not you?" She questioned slyly.

"What?" He asked, distracted by her knowing smirk.

"Unrequited would be if she liked Harry, right? Sure, I can see that. But what if she liked . . . I don't know—_you_. Would it be unrequited then?" Ginny leaned back on her arms, grinning so hard she worried her face might split.

"What?" Ron sputtered, nearly ripping the scroll in his hands. Jumping to his feet he pointed at his inquisitor with an accusing finger. "You're barking, that's what _you_ are!"

Ginny jumped to her feet laughing, swatting playfully at Ron's hand. "Ron." She whined teasingly. "Just admit it! You like Hermione."

"Of course I like Hermione." Ron muttered angrily. "She's my best friend."

Sighing disbelievingly, Ginny crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her hip to the side, staring him down. "I can't believe you're acting like such a prat. You like her, and she likes you! Granted, there's no unrequited bit there except that, just like the song, you only think that there is."

Shaking his head, Ron moved to storm out of the room. "Mental! My bloody sister's absolutely MENTAL."

Ginny moved quickly to block his exit by leaning against her closed door. Desperate now, she continued. "You know what the real tragedy in that song is, Ron? That poor girl's friend never put her out of her misery. He never just told her he liked her, and so she spent the rest of her empty hours writing that song. So why won't you just tell her, Ron? Give her something to cuddle other than a pillow!"

Ron stepped back from his sister, frantic eyes scanning her face for signs of insanity. Shaking the forgotten scroll at her, he yelled. "We are not talking about this, Gin. Drop it!"

"I will not!" She screamed, her eyes squinting with fury. Stalking him like a wild cat, she backed him into the far wall and poked his chest with a stern finger. "You're a bloody Gryffindor—"

"SO IS SHE!" He exploded. Face crumpling as he realized that he was beaten, Ron bowed his head and slid down the wall to a sitting position on the floor. "Ah, Gin." He moaned, crumpling the scroll in his hands against his forehead. "I already told her once, and she thought it was a joke! I can't do it again."

"Ronnie." Ginny crooned, kneeling before him with soft hands and worried eyes. Reaching forward to grasp his knee, she shook it to gain his attention. "Oh, Ron. I can't believe that she would do that—not if you were really serious, too. I know she likes you, Ron. If you had told her that she would have snogged your face off!"

Ron gave a watery chuckle at the image his sister described. Wiping his eyes on the back of the parchment, Ron met her gaze and responded. "I told her, Gin. And I thought she liked me, too, but somehow I messed it up. She thought it was all that bloody potion and Cheer Charm."

Peering closely into his disconsolate face, Ginny scrunched her nose in realization. "Oh. Well, that is rotten luck. But, Ron, don't you see? All you have to do is say it again. We all know that you're back to your normal, obnoxious self. I promise you, it'll be different this time."

Ron snorted, unrolling the parchment to wipe his eyes on a dry spot. "Gin, this isn't one of those bleeding novels you like to write. This is real life, and as Harry will agree, there isn't always a happy end—what the . . . ."

Ron pulled the parchment from his face with a sharp gasp, but the song that had leaped into his brain continued to play on.

"Do you hear that?" He asked shrilly, looking around the room for signs of the Wizard's Wireless. "It's Celestina Warbeck! Merlin's Beard! Where? How?"

Ginny peeled the parchment out of his hand and used her Gryffindor necktie to efficiently wipe stray traces of ink from Ron's face. As the ink came off, the music died away, leaving Ron trembling and gazing at his sister in horror.

"Sorry, Ron." She said apologetically. "It must have been your tears that made it transfer. Sorry. Are you okay?"

Ron flinched away from her hand as she attempted to touch his arm. Ginny jumped as Ron violently snatched the parchment out of her hand. Casting a hateful look at her he demanded. "What is this, Ginny? What the bloody hell is this?"


End file.
